


darling, are we in trouble now

by mellyflori



Category: The Musketeers (2014)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Fake/Pretend Relationship, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-26
Updated: 2016-05-08
Packaged: 2018-05-23 07:07:49
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 40,941
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6108907
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/mellyflori/pseuds/mellyflori
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Porthos shrugs. “Or we could go. We could go and be sweet and look happy and I could glare at her every time she makes a shitty remark."</p><p>Laughing, Aramis says, “Not that I wouldn’t love to watch that, but you shouldn’t have to suffer through my college friends. Not even to tweak Holly’s nose. Not even for Return of the Jedi."</p><p>“Are you kidding? I love both of those things! Plus, you’re going to give me really grateful head afterward."</p><p>“Am I now?” One side of Aramis’ mouth has curled into a smile and his right eyebrow is climbing for his hairline.</p><p>Porthos' nod is solemn. “The most thankful blowjob in history. And you’re gonna do that thing with your tongue.”</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is my very favorite fic trope. Ever. I hope I can do justice to it; I'll certainly try my best.
> 
> Endless love for both Cee and Te who read the same paragraph over and over until they could confirm that yes, I'd beaten it into shape.

“Think they’re as happy as we are?”

Porthos is looking around the coffee shop at all the couples sitting together. There’s so much tenderness in his voice; the question aches with it.

Aramis stares at him, face frozen. The music and conversation in the coffee house have disappeared; Aramis hears only Porthos’ voice and the high-pitched hum of terror coming from inside his own head.

Porthos’ smile is warm and rich. It’s shining in his eyes.

“Of course not, you’re right. No one’s as happy as we are.”  His voice is _so sweet_. "The way we know each other? The connection we have? No one else can touch that. When your heart beats, I feel it in my chest.”  Porthos slides his hand across the table and twines his fingers together with Aramis’.  He rubs his thumb over Aramis’ knuckles.

Aramis almost jerks his hand back.  How has he missed this?  They’ve been friends for years.  They’ve _talked_  about this. One of the things that make this friendship work so well is that neither one of them is the dating type, they can have great fucks and great laughs and not lose their minds. How can Porthos be throwing that away without any warning?

“It’s a wonder no one has made a movie about the perfection of us,” Porthos says and Aramis can feel the sweat at his nape start dripping down the back of his neck.

“Porthos — I think.  I.” Aramis tries to find the right words to end a four-year friendship that’s been like a meeting of the minds since the first day.

Porthos winks. “I’m fucking with you. Keep up."

The noise starts up again for Aramis, the chatter and the music and the sound of his own hammering heart coming back into rhythm.  He squeezes Porthos’ hand in return and smiles at him, adoringly. He can play this game, too.

“Oh yes, our love is perfect. For the ages, really.”

Porthos’ eyebrows start creeping up. He returns fire.  “Every breath you take is a miracle and I can’t stand to be away from you for five minutes,” he says and for a split second, Aramis’ expression takes on an awed and slightly panicked note.  It’s a joke, he knows that now, but still.

He smiles and goes as Bambi-eyed as he can. "I’ve had to pee for an hour,” Aramis says, "but I’ve been waiting for you to finish your soup so you can come with me and we won’t have to be apart."

Any attempt Aramis has been making to keep a straight face falls to pieces at this point. His shoulders are shaking and when Porthos laughs, Aramis goes right after him.

“That was perfect,” Aramis says. "‘I feel it in my chest' should have been over the top but that’s what made me worry again. What an utter load of shit. Jesus. You almost scared me for a second when I thought you were serious. What kind of fresh hell would that be?"

Porthos laughs and lets go of Aramis’ hand. “I’m with you on that. Being so attached you couldn’t stand to be apart for five minutes?”  He shakes his head.

"When I lose my mind and think I might want to date, you have my permission to shoot me. When I stare at you in betrayal, remind me of this conversation. That I never want to sound like that.”  Aramis looks over again at the booth in the corner where the two couples are cuddling, feeding each other.  He points with his spoon. “Or look like _that_."

Porthos raises his mug. “My word on it, if you’ll do the same. If I start to sound like that for real, you should hit me with something heavy.”  He takes a sip of his coffee and grins.  Waving his hand at the canoodling couples, he says, “Let them deal with that, I'll take great sex and hanging out having coffee while helping you scope out your next conquest."

Aramis looks startled and then wiggles one finger in his right ear.  “I’m sorry, I must have something in my ear because I could swear you just said that sex with me is merely great."

Porthos shrugs one shoulder and looks unimpressed. “'S alright."

Aramis stands and leans over the table so he can get his mouth right next to Porthos’ ear. “Aren’t you forgetting that thing I do with my tongue?"

Porthos turns so that their mouths are nearly touching. “Friend, no one who has ever been on the receiving end of it could forget that thing you do with your tongue. I just didn’t want to scandalize the old lady at the next table.”  He grins and Aramis can feel the smile against his lips.

“Well,” Aramis says, “I’m sure she can take a little scandal.”

Their kiss is interrupted by the sound of someone immediately to their left saying Aramis’ name.

“I thought that was you!” says the pretty blonde. “I thought, that looks just like Aramis, but it couldn’t possibly be because I don’t think I’ve ever known you to hang around long enough to have breakfast.”  She’s laughing and even though she’s clearly joking, Aramis’ answering smile is tight around his eyes. Porthos has never seen Aramis look like that. He finds he doesn’t like it. Not at all.

The woman turns to look Porthos, “I’m Holly.”  She holds her hand out and Porthos takes it.

“Porthos."

“Nice to meet you, Porthos. You're coming with him to Edgar’s movie night on the 20th, right? Everyone will want to meet the guy who convinced Aramis that ‘boyfriend’ isn’t a dirty word."

Aramis starts to speak, “Oh, we’re—"

“Free that night, I think,” Porthos interrupts. "We’ll need to check the calendar. But we’d love that, wouldn’t we, babe?"

Aramis is staring at Porthos as though his beard has begun growing in pink. Porthos looks back up and smiles at Holly.

“See you then.”

Holly pats Aramis on the shoulder and says something that’s friendly enough to not irritate Porthos, though she’s clearly still surprised, and leaves, waving as she goes.

The frown creases Aramis’ forehead. “What are you doing?"

“She was bitchy just to needle you. Did you dump her when you were teenagers or something?"

Aramis shakes his head, “We’ve been friends since college, but she’s not my type. Not even my type for a quick thing. Nah, that was just her assuming she knows what’s best for everyone."

“Yeah, well, she was still pissy and you shouldn’t have to deal with it."

“Thanks for that,” Aramis says. He reaches over nudges Porthos’ shoulder. “I’ll email Edgar tomorrow and tell him I’ll see them next month instead."

Porthos shrugs. “Or we could go. We could go and be sweet and look happy and I could glare at her every time she makes a shitty remark."

Laughing, Aramis says, “Not that I wouldn’t love to watch that, but you shouldn’t have to suffer through my college friends. Not even to tweak Holly’s nose. Not even for Return of the Jedi."

“Are you kidding? I love both of those things! Plus, you’re going to give me really grateful head afterward."

“Am I now?” One side of Aramis’ mouth has curled into a smile and his right eyebrow is climbing for his hairline.

Porthos' nod is solemn. “The most thankful blowjob in history. And you’re gonna do that thing with your tongue.”

Aramis laughs so loud the old lady at the table next to them finally turns to glare at him.  “It’s a deal,” he says.

Later, they’ll look back and realize that this was the point at which things began to go so very wrong.

 

 

When Porthos answers the door, Aramis is looking more nervous than Porthos has ever seen him. And really, there’s no need for that.

“You’re about to tell me again that I don’t need to do this, that you’d really rather not go and we could just hang out and fuck instead."

Aramis winces.

“And then I’m going to remind you that I’m the one who suggested it and that the confused look on everyone's face is going to be something we laugh about for years and it’s going to be more than worth putting up with a bunch of strangers for a night. Also, I’m going to remind you that there’s going to be Star Wars while we’re there and a blowjob after, so it’s not really a hardship.”  He leans back in the door to grab his coat. “So quit bitching and let’s go."

Aramis smiles as they start walking toward the parking lot. “I do love these little chats of ours, such great discourse."

“You want discourse?”  Porthos stops and turns to look Aramis in the eye. “I’m stretched and prepped so you can fuck me the instant we walk back in that door later. I thought about a plug, but I wasn’t sure I wanted to wait long enough for you to take it back out. Couldn’t make up my mind one way or the other, so I stuck it in my inside coat pocket. Might still decide to do it.”  Aramis stares at him.  He’s still blinking when Porthos asks, “Whose car are we taking?"

They're taking Aramis' car.

“Okay,” Porthos says, watching the storefronts zipping by outside his window and hearing the wet roads hissing under the wheels, “I know Holly, and her attitude, from the coffee house. Who else will be there?"

Aramis snorts. “The thing about Holly—“  He stops and grips the steering wheel, hearing the leather creak under his hands and thinking of the right words to use. “When I was a freshman, first time away from home and dealing with some… things, Holly was there. After I got my feet under me and started enjoying myself, Holly would help me sneak back in so the front desk guards didn’t see me plastered. She’d sneak my dates back _out_  so the RA didn’t figure out who they’d been with, and the whole time shaking her head at me and telling me to find someone I could stick with.  When Edgar’s car shit itself and he needed supplies for a project, Holly drove him into town."

Porthos nods, “So, a bit of a mom, yeah?"

“Exactly. Gina - you’ll meet Gina tonight, too, her roommates were merciless bullies and whenever Gina needed to get away, she’d sleep in Holly’s room. In Holly’s bed, actually, with Holly curled around her like a mama bear.”  Aramis slows to a stop at a red light and he and Porthos sit in the silence for a minute.

Porthos isn’t quite sure how to tread. They talk, of course they do. They talk about work and mutual friends, argue about politics and movies, but Porthos isn’t sure they’ve ever talked about themselves like they are now. It’s a little awkward, maybe, connecting like this for the first time. A little awkward, but nice, here in the car together, in the quiet, with just the occasional flap of the wipers.

“But we were never going to stay that way forever, were we?” Aramis says. "We were going to grow up, graduate, move on. Holly loved being a mama bear so much; it’s the only time she ever really liked herself. And if we grew up, who would she mother? Holly misses college, she misses being needed, she misses feeling that way about herself, and the closest she can come to that is continuing to believe we’re all the same people we were then."

He sighs; the light turns green and he starts driving again. “Sorry, this is a little heavy for us."

Porthos turns from looking out the window to give him a little smile. “’S nice, though."

Aramis returns the smile. “Yeah.” He turns back to the road. “Anyway, she still needles me about settling down. Like it’s something about me that needs to be fixed. It isn’t. It’s who I am, and I’ve given up apologizing for it."

“You tell her that?"

“No. It’s easier to ignore her than it is to get into it, even when the rest of them chime in because it’s a reliable joke. Fuck ‘em."

“I don’t know,” Porthos says. “If that’s the case, I’d have thought she would be happy to see you with someone, but that shit on Sunday didn’t seem happy."

“Yes, well. She doesn’t like it when the rules change, when people change. She’ll catch up."

“I still don't feel bad about this."

Aramis laughs. "Oh, no, it's going to be great. My love life -- Well, my sex life anyway, has been their favorite joke for so long, I can't wait to watch them all scramble to find a new one."

"So, I know about Holly now, and Edgar and Gina. Who else?"

Aramis hums, thinking. "Jarrod will be there, but not his boyfriend. That's a shame, too, staring at his ass is always a nice distraction. Edgar's new girlfriend. Well, I say new but they've been together for months now. Probably not Gina's husband, Paul - he's always got some work thing. A couple of others maybe, but those are the ones I'm sure about."

Flicking his turn signal on, Aramis pulls onto a leafy suburban street. "We probably seem like an odd bunch, but there's a lot of shared history, a lot of years of support and loyalty. Not to mention the blackmail material." He pulls the car up to the curb in front of a blue split-level with a well-kept yard, and thanks his lucky stars, again, that he's managed to avoid this level of domestication. “We’ve built a friendship on mutually assured destruction."

Porthos leers at him, "I like the basis for ours better."

"Oral sex, Thai take-out, and Mario Kart?"

"Don't limit yourself, Aramis."  He reaches over to pat Aramis' shoulder. "There are plenty of other options besides Thai."

"Come on, then, asshole. The sooner we get this over with, the sooner you can get your grateful blowjob and I can fuck you."

 

Edgar has clearly been warned, probably while he was out shopping with Holly. Though clearly that wasn’t long ago because he’s still clearly adjusting to the news when he opens the door to them. He’s a short man with dark skin and bright, kind eyes."

"Aramis! Hey!  And this must be the..."

"Boyfriend. This is my boyfriend, Porthos."

"Yes, that. Hi, I’m Edgar, I've heard so much about you!” His smile is broad and welcoming.

Porthos turns to Aramis and squeezes his hand, "You told your friends about me?"

"Oh god," Edgar says, "I made it weird. I'm so sorry."

"It's okay, Porthos is going to have to get used to going places where people have already heard how incredible he is."  He raises their joined fingers and kisses the back of Porthos' hand.

Aramis is expecting a response that's equally over-the-top and lovey. He's a little surprised when Porthos just looks at him, eyes wide, with a shy smile. Still, Edgar seems more convinced than he had been by Aramis' words. Well played, Porthos.

The rest of the party is waiting for them in the living room. Porthos meets everyone, even seems to remember their names for at least a few minutes.

"How did you two meet?" Edgar's girlfriend asks. As a sign that she’s new here herself, she doesn't have the snide note to her voice that almost anyone else in the room would have asking this question.

Aramis looks at Porthos and tries to decide if the truth would be entertainingly scandalous or just cement everyone's opinion of him. Because truly, there's nothing romantic about, "We both abandoned our dance partners to make out against the Staff Entrance door at our favorite club." Not even Aramis' bullshit skills could spin that.

Porthos beats him to it. "I don't like to tell this story because it makes me sound _terrible_.” His laugh is self-deprecating and adorable. Aramis is charmed and he _knows_  this is a lie. "I was house-sitting for my sister and taking care of her cat, and I wasn't paying enough attention and he ate something he shouldn't have.  One minute he's happy and the next minute he's coughing and having trouble breathing and I'm grabbing him up and speeding to the vet. I didn't even put him in a crate or a box, I just put my hand on him on the other seat and prayed my baby sister's little angel didn't die while she was on vacation."  He laughs again, and Aramis tries to wipe the startled look off his face.

"So, there I am, skidding into the parking lot at the vet's and running in with this cat under my arm that's wheezing and I'm terrified. And there's Aramis, and he’s immediately just _got this_.  He checked us in and got the cat stabilized and kept reassuring me that it would be okay. He even brought me coffee while the doctor was checking the poor little guy to make sure I hadn't done permanent damage."  Porthos smiles at Aramis. "How was I supposed to let a guy like that slip away, eh?"

Edgar is smiling; Dorothy, his girlfriend, is smiling. Even Holly, whose skepticism is the reason they're here in the first place, is staring at them doe-eyed. Aramis decides this is his cue to step in.

"And I couldn't imagine ever letting go of a guy who would be that worried about a cat that didn't even belong to him. He's just the best."

Holly seems to shake it off the soonest.

"You'll have to pardon our surprise, Porthos. It's just that Aramis has always said he's the kind of guy who doesn't date. He was--" she pauses and Porthos assumes it's to get the confusion in her voice under control, "quite adamant about it, actually."

One of the other guys, Jarrod, if Porthos is remembering correctly, steps in. "It's not that he doesn't date, really." It's just that he doesn't date anybody _twice_." He laughs and it's not really a kind sound.  "For a while we thought he just didn't realize he was gay,” Jarrod says. "We were wrong. He'd happily not date guys twice, either."

Everyone laughs; Porthos feels Aramis' fingers tighten on his.

Porthos squeezes back.

"I kinda like that, babe," Porthos says, turning to Aramis with a soft smile. "It's like you knew right away they weren't right and you knew right away I was. I mean, I asked you out for coffee the first day we met and you said yes, then you asked me out again before we were even finished with that date. We've never looked back."

Aramis grins at him. "Well, like you said, how was I supposed to let a guy like you slip away?"

Edgar, the only one in the room who's been demonstrably kind to Aramis, says he's heading into the kitchen to bring out the food and drinks.  "Let me help you," Porthos says.  Edgar tries to wave him back but Porthos won't hear of it.  "Have to earn my keep," Porthos says and winks. He stands, but before he starts for the kitchen, he ducks down and gives Aramis the sweetest, softest kiss they’ve ever had. "Back in a second," he almost whispers.

It's the kind of kiss Aramis hates, too tender, too much room for sentiment. He and Porthos don't kiss like that. Their kisses are fast and fierce and slick. Porthos likes to stroke his tongue over the roof of Aramis' mouth while hauling their bodies together. Aramis likes to fuck Porthos' mouth while riding him on the sofa. They never kiss like this.

Once Aramis gets over the novelty of feeling those lips touch him that way, he has to agree it's perfect for the moment. That was a boyfriend kiss, and to seal the deal, Aramis watches him walk away with a soft smile on his face. His expression says, 'That's my guy, I'm so lucky,' even while his dick reminds him what he's going to owe Porthos when this evening is over.

 

In the kitchen, Edgar hands Porthos a corkscrew and a bottle of red wine.  He smiles at Porthos.

"I'm glad you're here."

"Thanks, man. Any excuse for Star Wars, yeah?"

"Sure," Edgar says, "but it's more than that? I've known Aramis a long time and I've worried about him sometimes. He's a great guy, he's kind and funny and smart. He's loyal, y'know.  And yeah, he went on a lot of first dates and almost no second ones, but it wasn't like he was promising people he'd marry them and then leaving before dessert. It's not his fault he doesn't have any urge to spend his energy on something short term."

He reaches into the cabinet and pulls out the glasses, setting them on a tray. "Aramis deserves someone who sees that history for what it is and recognizes all the great things about him, and it looks like he's found one. So-- I'm glad you're here."

Porthos smiles at him, a real genuine smile for almost the first time tonight. "Thanks, Edgar. That means a lot. Aramis is pretty great, and I think we suit each other. I'm glad I'm here, too."

Not a word of that is a lie. Edgar doesn't need to know it's not really true either.

Porthos seats the corkscrew against the bottle and starts twisting. "Now, you guys were in college together, yeah?"

Edgar dumps an enormous bag of popcorn into an equally enormous bowl. "All four years."

Pulling the cork out with a satisfying pop, Porthos says, "So you must have at least one really great story I haven't heard. We've been together for a while now, but we're not quite at the stage where we tell embarrassing college stories. Help me out, here, Edgar."  He flashes Edgar a smile that's all dimple and guile.

Mouth open, Edgar stares at him. "So you haven't heard about the fire drills?"

Porthos' eyebrows go up. "I haven't, no. What would it take for you to tell me?"

"Oh," Edgar laughs. "I'll tell you this one for free. Okay, maybe not free. You gotta call me or email me or whatever and describe what his face is like when he finds out you know."

Grinning, Porthos says, "If it's as good as it's shaping up to be, you'll be watching that face in about three minutes."

"The thing you have to know for it all to make sense is that we lived in a dorm building with thirteen floors, there were a thousand of us in that building."

Porthos pops a peanut into his mouth. "Go on."

 

In the other room, there’s a moment of uncomfortable silence after they leave as everyone turns to stare at Aramis.

“I like him,” Dorothy says, stopping every other shitty remark.

“He’s very nice,” Holly says. “And God knows I’ve never seen you this comfortable with someone.  You found someone to tame you after all this time."

Aramis’ smile is surgical. “I found someone who makes me happy, Holly. I found the right person. And, neither of us is tame. My downstairs neighbors will tell you that.”  He throws her a smirk and a wink.

“Glad you’re happy, buddy,” Jarrod says. “Bring him to 4th of July at my place, yeah?"

“If you’re still to—"

Aramis cuts Holly off. “Of course, J. We wouldn’t miss it."

Dorothy leans over the back of the sofa to hug Aramis around the shoulders. She’s relatively new, the rest of them have known each other since their early university days, but this is only Dorothy’s third monthly movie night.

She leans down to speak quietly into his ear, “Maybe by then someone will have knocked some of the cobwebs from between Holly’s legs and she won’t be quite such a brat."

Aramis leans his head against hers and says, under his breath, “Everyone here thinks you’re the sweet one."

Dorothy pats his shoulder. “You and Edgar know better, that’s all the appreciative audience I need."

They’re still grinning at each other when Porthos makes his way back into the room,  balancing a bag of chips on top of a tray of food. "So, Aramis."

Aramis smiles up at him from the sofa. “Mmm?"

"Down thirteen flights of stairs in nothing but a thong and a short pink bathrobe?"

Aramis whips his head around and points his glare and an accusing finger at Edgar.  "You are a filthy traitor!"

"It's not his fault," Porthos laughs, setting the tray down on the coffee table.  "I asked for stories and that was the one I got. And he was careful to tell me that you made sure everyone else on the floor was out, that you even told the firefighters what the cause probably was and saved them however long it would have taken them to find it themselves.”  He squeezes Aramis’ shoulder. "You’re quite the hero, babe."

His cheeks still pink, Aramis sighs. "Hero is certainly pushing it. They'd tried putting a flaming box in the trash chute the week before but it had gone out on the way down, this was just them trying again."  He smiles at Porthos. "I would like to point out that no one remembers that part."  There's an indignant noise from Edgar. “Except Edgar, my favorite person. Thank you, Edgar. No, people only remember that I came out of a room that wasn't mine wearing nothing but her underwear and her robe."

Porthos drops a kiss on his head and takes a seat next to Aramis. "As far as I'm concerned that's the story of how my fashionably dressed boyfriend helped save a thousand college kids from certain doom." He drags his nose over Aramis' and kisses him.

Aramis drops his head to Porthos shoulder and hides his next words behind a kiss to the hollow behind Porthos' ear. "Nicely done. You're good."  He can feel Porthos laugh, can feel Porthos' voice low against his own ear.

"I'm better than good, but these guys aren't worth the big show."

"Can I have the big show later?"

"Play your cards right and you can be _part_  of the big show."

Aramis kisses him again. He doesn't even consider that it's the first time tonight he's kissed Porthos just because he wanted to.

Edgar passes out mason jars full of wine ("Stemware is wasted on you people") and pushes play on the remote.

It's Star Wars. It's been so much a part of their lives that no one in the room can remember the first time they saw it. Still, with familiarity comes the ability to heckle while not missing any of the story.

When Han comes on screen for the first time, Porthos is just sinking into the movie, remembering why he loves it so much. Gina pipes up from across the room. "Rogue and a scoundrel, yeah?  It's official, he's the Aramis of the Rebel Alliance."

Porthos stiffens next to him, ready to jump in again, but Aramis just pats his knee. "Except, since I seem to have found the one person who could make me believe in love, does that make Porthos my Leia?"  Neither of them misses Gina's momentary frown, Porthos is having a fantastic time watching them all deal with losing the customary butt of their jokes.

"I think that sounds perfect,” Dorothy says. “And now you don't even need to think about Halloween costumes this year!" Porthos gives her his best grin. He might happily drive the rest of these people off a pier, but Dorothy and Edgar are what his dad would call 'good people.'

"Only if I get the bikini."

Aramis winks at him. "You've got the legs for it."

Porthos returns the wink and drapes his arm over Aramis' shoulder and the rest of the movie passes in a companionable mix of quiet and good-natured ribbing of the characters.

 

Everyone is polite as they say goodbye, even Holly.

“I’m sorry,” Holly says.  She’s not clear what she’s apologizing for and Aramis decides to take it as all-encompassing. “You know it takes me a while to adjust; I’m glad you're happy."

He squeezes her in a quick hug. “You’re lucky I like you even when you’re an ass.”

In the car, Porthos drops his head back against the seat with a thud. “I don’t think most of them realized how bitchy they sounded. At least, now they’ll get a new running joke."

Aramis starts the car and smiles at him. Pulling out onto the street and merging into traffic, he flicks his eyes to the rearview mirror and then quickly to Porthos. “You were a perfect protective boyfriend. And next month, when I tell them we’re not seeing each other anymore, I fully expect them to miss you more than they’d miss me.”  He takes one hand off the wheel to hold it over his heart.  “It’ll be tough, but they’ll learn to move on.”  He shoots a dramatically sad look at Porthos, then laughs.

Something twitches in Porthos’ chest, but he’s laughing, too. “Admit it, you loved getting to shut them up."

Aramis takes his hand, “I did, and I didn’t know how much I’d enjoy it until tonight.”  He takes Porthos’ hand and kisses his knuckles. “My hero.”  He flicks the turn signal on and puts both hands on the wheel to navigate the intersection.

“Your sister’s cat?”  Aramis asks, looking at Porthos just for a second. “That was genius. How did you come up with that? I didn't even know you knew I was a vet tech."

"Asshole, you bitch about your job as much as I bitch about mine, the only difference is that I listen."

Aramis splutters. "Asshole is it? Oh, I'll show you asshole."

Porthos unrolls his tongue and leers at Aramis.  “Promise?"

Aramis laughs, and there’s a delightful shiver down his spine. They’re on familiar footing again, sex and sarcasm.  “I thought I was the one who owed you the grateful blowjob."

“Who says there’s only one round?"

They’re not far from Aramis’ place now, just a few minutes if they lights are with them.  Porthos puts his hand on Aramis’ zipper, cupping his groin with enough pressure to make himself felt but not enough to hurt.

"Porthos," Aramis groans.

"You know you always suck cock just a little better when you're horny yourself. Then again," he winks at Aramis and gives him a little squeeze, "when are you not?"

Aramis takes the corner into the parking lot for his row of houses at twenty miles per hour.

He's tearing his shirt off as they come through the door, his grin bright in the dark of the entryway.  Porthos kicks the door closed and toes his boots and socks off, shaking loose from his jeans as he races Aramis up the stairs into the bedroom.

Aramis is standing at the foot of the bed, naked, hard, and panting, when Porthos makes it through the door.

Standing in front of Aramis, Porthos looks him up at and down, from his surprisingly bony feet to the place where his hair is curling at the tips from the damp night. Porthos puts one hand in the center of Aramis' chest and pushes him backward onto the bed.  Aramis laughs as he hits the mattress.

Porthos crawls across the bed, bracing himself over Aramis, looking into his eyes. "I'm gonna keep moving up the bed until I've got my cock in front of your face and then I'm going to feed it into your mouth until you've got as much of me as you can take from this angle."

"Yes," Aramis says. "Good plan."  Porthos flashes one dimple and ducks his head for a quick kiss. He digs his teeth into Aramis' lower lip and feels Aramis hiss into his mouth.  Laughing, Porthos licks over the spot. He stops laughing when he feels Aramis' tongue sweep against his. The kiss doesn't deepen, quite the opposite. Aramis pulls back and presses his mouth to Porthos' over and over, flicking his tongue out to lick at the corner of Porthos' mouth, then kissing him soft and close-mouthed again.

Porthos moans into it and Aramis can feel him breathing against his cheek, fast and deep. When Porthos pulls away, he stares at Aramis. This is how they kissed at the party, this is how they kissed when they were boyfriends just for show. Still, it was a nice kiss, if they're kissing like this now, Porthos can work with that. Sure.

He kisses Aramis once more, softly, just to show he's fine with this change. Then, raising up onto his knees, Porthos comes up to straddle Aramis' neck, resting the dark, flushed head of his cock against Aramis' lower lip.

Aramis flicks his tongue over it.  Porthos grins down at him.  "You're such a shit," he says, sliding himself into Aramis' mouth. It's hot and wet and perfect, it always is with Aramis.  Aramis moans around him and Porthos pulls back then slides in again.

He can feel Aramis' hands coming up to cup his ass, to scratch lightly at the skin and squeeze in encouragement. "Yeah," Porthos says. "Just like that. Suck me just like that."

Falling forward to brace his left hand on the headboard and curl his right hand into Aramis’ hair, Porthos starts to fuck Aramis mouth, trusting him to pinch if he needs Porthos to stop. That's their signal if they can't talk.  He can feel the head of his cock rubbing over the roof of Aramis' mouth, against the back of his throat.

"Fucking perfect mouth. You know that, too. You know how perfect it is for this. And you love it." Porthos is working with the last of his rational mind now, keeping himself from choking Aramis, from gagging him.  They hadn't agreed to that this time. "Need to come; where d'you want it?"

Looking down, Porthos can see Aramis' huge eyes staring back at him. "Want it on your face?"  Aramis furrows his eyebrows and blinks twice.  "In your mouth, then?"  Aramis' face goes peaceful and soft; he blinks once, lazy and slow. "Yeah, I want you to taste it."

Cupping the back of Aramis' head, Porthos fucks his mouth with quick, shallow strokes. There's a grunt, a groan, then Porthos is rolling his head back on his neck and growling as he empties himself over Aramis' tongue.  Aramis moans, taking advantage of how shallow Porthos is to lap at the head, licking over and around him as he comes.

When he can't take it anymore, when he's too sensitive and too wrung out, Porthos pulls back and climbs off, wanting to collapse but not wanting to put that weight on Aramis' collar bone.

He leans in to kiss Aramis, filthy and deep, shamelessly licking the taste of himself from Aramis' mouth.  When he goes to stroke Aramis' cock, Aramis stops him.

"I remember you promising me I could fuck you when we got home."

“Do I need to move for you to do that?" Porthos asks, voice lazy and more than a little asleep already.

Aramis rolls toward him, pinching one of Porthos' nipples between his thumb and forefinger.

"I have a plan."

Porthos hisses and swats at his hands.  "What's the plan?"

"I'll let you sleep for a bit and _then_  I fuck you."

Porthos rolls his head to look at Aramis. "That seems unfair. You get a fuck _and_  a nap."

Aramis snorts. “Don’t let tonight go to your head, you’re not my boyfriend and I’m not giving up a nap for you. Sleep then fuck, that’s the offer. Take it or leave it."

Porthos laughs. “Maybe. I gotta head out after, though."

Aramis cocks an eyebrow. "Of course you're leaving after, since when are we sleepover buddies?"  It's true, they don't spend the night unless it's nearly dawn before they finish. “

"One condition, though," Porthos says.  Aramis looks at him, that same eyebrow still raised.  “I want an answer about that dorm incident."  Aramis groans and buries his face in his pillow.  "I know why you put the robe on when the alarm went, why did you put the panties on?"

Aramis just looks at him.  He knows Porthos, knows he's far more clever than most people realize. He'll get this on his own in just a few more seconds.

Porthos eyebrows go up. There it is, Aramis can almost see the lightbulb come on over Porthos' head. "You didn't put the panties on when the alarm went off."  A smile curls over Aramis' face.  "You put the robe on to cover the fact that you already had the panties on."  Aramis gives him a toothy grin and Porthos laughs until his belly hurts.

"New plan." Porthos says, dragging the sheet up to cover his chest and switching off the light. "Nap now, fuck after, and then next time I see you I'm going to get a reenactment of that and I'm going to push those panties aside and eat you for an hour."

Aramis settles back against the pillow, draping an arm over his eyes.  He reaches over with his other hand to absently pat Porthos' shoulder. "Excellent plan."


	2. Chapter 2

“There’s the best boyfriend ever!"

Porthos hangs his raincoat up and shoots Aramis a smile over his shoulder. “Aww, did you miss me, honey?”

Aramis clutches his chest. “More than I can ever say."

“You’re an idiot."

“We’re all idiots,” Athos shouts from the kitchen. “That’s why you love us. Because you’re an idiot, too."

“No,” Porthos says, toeing off his muddy shoes. “I love you because you’re a magician in the kitchen.” He walks over to lean against the side of the sofa. From here he can see everyone, Athos and d’Artagnan in the kitchen, Aramis on the sofa. "I love d’Artagnan because he showed me that place with the amazing empanadas over on 4th, and I love Aramis for—"

“That thing I do with my tongue?"

“For starters.” Porthos winks.

“Yeah,” Aramis says, bringing his voice up to a level of sweet that's nearly cloying, “but I love you more."

Porthos grins. “After what I did to your cock Monday night, you better worship the ground I walk on.” Aramis growls and Porthos bends to take Aramis’ lower lip between his teeth for the start of a dirty kiss.

“Enough! Don’t make me turn the kitchen sprayer on you like I do with d’Artagnan’s cat."

“She’s _our_  cat."

“Not when she’s on the counter she’s not."

“So,” d’Artangnan says, “why is Porthos the best boyfriend ever?"

Aramis scoots over as Porthos sits next to him. “He came with me to movie night and glared at anyone who picked on me. He also made up a truly inspired bullshit story about how we met."

D’Artagnan hands them each a beer. “Because it wouldn’t go over well for them to know that you’d left me to the wolves while you two snuck out to the alley to make out. I was young and impressionable, Aramis!"

“Yes, and while I was gone you met Athos, I’d hardly consider that ‘left to the wolves.’"

D’Artagnan smirks, settling it into a smile when he feels the weight of Athos’ hand on the back of his neck. “It could certainly have been worse.” Athos kisses his temple.

Porthos rolls his eyes. Aramis snorts. “Now who’s going to get the kitchen sprayer?"

Athos looks down to where Porthos has his legs casually slung over Aramis’ lap and cocks one eyebrow.

“I know, I’m sorry, I’ll get my feet off the furniture."

Athos looks confused, then rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “Go set the table, Best Boyfriend Ever."

Porthos keeps up a running commentary as he works. First about Athos' insistence on actual linens for the table, then onto the quality of the company at Aramis' movie night. He talks about how things are going at work and asks d'Artagnan how grad school is going.

Taking over, d'Artagnan vents about grading papers, his painfully full schedule, and how with all of the work he's doing he never gets time to do the things that might actually help him graduate. "Aramis can I just chuck it in and come work with you?"

"First please confirm you are okay having a 10-week-old kitten climb onto your head and then shit down your neck.” D’Artagnan recoils. "Because that was my Tuesday, and I'm rather afraid that level of bodily output is the rule, not the exception.” Aramis stretches out on the sofa, folding his arms behind his head, and recounts the events of his morning. He tells them about the excited dog who'd jumped up to say hi, hooked his nails just the right way, and dragged Aramis' scrub pants down. The dog's owner had been appreciative about the view. It had been a nice start to the day, enough to buoy him up for the afternoon, for the animals who hadn't made it.

"So, no, you can't just chuck in your academic life and come work with me. Not unless sleeping with Athos has made you truly blasé about being pissed on."

"Aramis!" Athos shouts from the kitchen.

"What? I’ve no idea how you two do things. For all I know, d'Artagnan's most hands-on veterinary experience comes from wearing a collar for you."

D'Artagnan splutters and a flush darkens his cheeks. Aramis' smile curls up like the Grinch. Before Aramis can pounce, Athos calls for extra hands to get the food to the table.

Wednesday nights at Athos' are Aramis' favorite nights of the week. He loves the company, though they're missing Constance this week, and he loves the food. Tonight, Athos has made chicken stuffed with spinach and ricotta; there is an enormous salad full of early lettuces and wild rice cooked in chicken broth. He could feed himself this well, but he doesn't; there's no need when he has Athos.

While Athos and d’Artagnan are putting chicken breasts on plates, Porthos nudges Aramis’ knee under the table. “You doing anything right after this?"

“No, want me to follow you home?"

“Actually, I only had a quick question, but I’m not turning that down."

Aramis winks.

 

 

Porthos’ apartment is a reflection of the man himself. It’s warm, inviting, pleasantly cluttered, and comfortable.

“You want a beer?” Porthos asks, heading for the kitchen.

“Thank you, no. Any more and I’ll have a headache in the morning. I’d love a shower, though, if that’s alright? I got a chance to change after work, but not a chance to really get clean."

“Help yourself,” Porthos says. “You know where everything is."

There have been nights when they both stumbled into the shower, covered in flavored lube or semen or, on one terrifyingly memorable occasion, spray cheese from a can. So Aramis knows where the spare towels are and that the hot water takes forever to kick in but when it does it’s immediately scalding.

The temperature is finally just right, and Aramis is halfway through soaping up his body when the curtain slides open and Porthos steps in behind him. He’s naked, his skin stark against the white tiles, and he’s grinning at Aramis.

“If I leave you in here alone you’ll primp forever. I thought maybe I could help move you along."

Aramis finishes scrubbing around his ankles, takes a swipe at his neck, and says, “I think I’m good. Just need to get my back, my nails, and my hair."

Porthos takes the washcloth from his hands. “I’ll do your back, you do your nails."

It shouldn’t take long to scrub under his nails, but Aramis finds that as soon as Porthos puts those big hands on his back, he can’t move. Porthos is digging his fingers into the curves of Aramis’ muscles, dragging the washcloth over them as though he knows the individual groups and is mapping them.

“Do you want me to stop?” Porthos says. Aramis shakes his head. “Then _do_  your _nails_.

Aramis almost fumbles the nailbrush. He starts scrubbing, resisting the urge to slow down merely to irritate Porthos. He’s almost finished, just about ready to put the nailbrush back in its caddy, when he sees Porthos’ hand reach over his head and take the shampoo from the shelf.

In the past few years, they have fucked on every surface in both of their apartments, tied each other to any number of things, and confessed to kinks they’d never expected to tell another soul, but Aramis is sure that feeling Porthos wash his hair is the most shockingly intimate they’ve ever been.

He cannot help his moans. Those fingers again, those strong, thick fingers, digging into his scalp and scrubbing. This is so unlike them, so unlike their quick scrub-down sessions to get the rid of the last of the come or EZ-Cheez. Aramis isn’t moving, isn’t doing anything with his hands, he’s just standing there while Porthos tilts his head back to scrub at his temples. It feels amazing, and Aramis never wants it to end.

Porthos is closer to him now, and Aramis can feel where their bodies are touching. How it can be more erotic to feel the water tracing around the three or four places where their skin meets, than to be draped over each other in bed, Aramis has no idea.

“Rinse,” Porthos says, slapping Aramis’ ass and jarring him out of the moment. Aramis feels startled and a nagging feeling that’s almost wistfulness. “Rinse and then put your hands on the wall."

Aramis puts his head under the spray and feels the shampoo running down his back. He tries to keep the feeling of Porthos fingers on his scalp even as the water is beating down on him, washing them away.

Once his hands are on the wall, Aramis can look down past his own waist to see Porthos crouching behind him. Those hands are back, gripping at his thighs, his hips, holding him still. Porthos cups half of Aramis’ ass in each big hand and spreads him open.

“What are you doing?” Aramis asks. It’s a stupid question, he _knows_  what Porthos is doing, he means to ask why Porthos is doing it here, why he’s put himself in such an uncomfortable position with water running over his face as it sheets off Aramis’ back.

“Quality control,” Porthos says, sliding one thick thumb over Aramis’ asshole. “Just going to make sure you are good and ready."

“Will I get a sticker when you’re finished? This ass inspected by—,” he breaks off with a gasp and cry when Porthos drags the flat of his tongue across his hole. Aramis can feel himself tighten and then relax, it’s always like that, the first touch of Porthos’ tongue is so strange it takes a second to get used to it. After that is nothing but perfect.

Porthos is licking at him now, lapping over and over, feeling Aramis relax and soften under the pressure. Aramis is shuddering, chilled even with the hot water still running over him. Porthos sucks a kiss right at Aramis’ center and then stands up, flipping the water off. “Get yourself as dry as you need to, I’ll meet you in bed.” He bites Aramis’ shoulder, slaps his ass again, and gets out of the shower.

Standing in the sudden lack of water, Aramis can feel every part of his body like it’s on fire, the skin of his arms pimpling in the chill, the sting of the slap, the weakness in his legs. He’s been looking forward to this since Porthos’ crack about the panties; he always plays Aramis' body so perfectly.

There is a moment, at some point in the next half hour, on his back with arms around his legs, holding his knees into his armpits, when Aramis thinks he should be embarrassed by how splayed out and needy he looks. He’s surprised that he doesn’t. There’s no feeling of being exposed and vulnerable, only Porthos’ face when he looks up from where he is sucking filthy kisses into Aramis’ ass and grins at him. After that, Aramis forgets everything but the slick heat of Porthos’ tongue and the sound of his own panted breath.

Porthos is not holding back. He’s sucking at the tender skin around Aramis’ hole, dragging his tongue over it, licking and licking and licking at the rim until it’s loose enough for him to flick inside. His hands are curled against the meat of Aramis’ ass, gripping it tight enough that Aramis has reason to hope there might be bruises for him to poke at the next day. To poke at and smile.

It doesn’t go on forever, they’re both too keyed up for that, but it goes on long enough for there to be tears pricking at the corners of Aramis’ eyes. This just feels so fucking good. When Porthos slips two fingers into him and licks around them, Aramis arches his back off the bed and reaches down, pushing Porthos’ head away.

“No no no, don’t make me come."

“No?"

“Want… I want to fuck you."

Porthos grins. “Yeah. Yeah, I’m good with that."

Aramis sits up, his weeping cock smearing slick across his belly. He gestures at the center of the bed. “Hands and knees,” he says, still regaining his finer language skills.

“That sounds promising,” Porthos says, scooting over to where Aramis had indicated and positioning himself with his knees apart, his hands bracing his upper body and just a hint of a curve to his lower back. He has no idea he’s doing it, no idea that he’s arching himself up, asking for Aramis’ touch.

Aramis grabs the lube from the nightstand drawer, slicking the fingers of his right hand. He strokes down the crease of Porthos’ ass with two of them, rubbing over and over, building up the pressure so slowly that Porthos barely notices the increase until all at once they’re sliding in. Porthos gasps and Aramis strokes his left hand up Porthos’ back. With his palm flat against all that warm, beautiful skin, Aramis traces the line of Porthos’ spine up to the nape of his neck, then back down again with his fingers curled to scratch lightly. After another pass, he pauses with his hand against the back of Porthos’ neck and watches the muscles in his upper back release. Aramis can feel the loosening tension at the same time he sees Porthos’ head sag and drop. The image comes to him of calm settling over d’Artagnan as Athos cupped his neck, not unlike this.

Snatching his hand back, Aramis asks, “Ready?"

“Yeah,” Porthos says. “Yeah, now.” His head is back up, that beautiful, vulnerable slackness gone again.

Aramis gets himself into position between Porthos’ knees and wedges the head of his cock against Porthos’ hole. “Been needing this,” he says, fucking himself in past that first, perfect tightness. Porthos gasps and drops to his elbows.

“Want me to stop?” Aramis asks. Porthos shakes his head, he doesn’t, but Aramis slows anyway. While Porthos catches his breath, Aramis traces his ribs, curves his palms around Porthos’ waist and rubs little circles into his hips. For an instant, he realizes this is how Porthos was touching his head while washing his hair. Aramis shakes his head. He grunts, digging his fingers in and tugging Porthos’ hips back.

This. He loves this. Not fucking Porthos, though who wouldn’t love being deep in an ass this incredible. No, what Aramis loves is the rawness of it. He doesn’t have to worry that Porthos is going to stare longingly into his eyes or expect something after. It’s about feeling as good as their bodies can feel and not complicating it with tenderness or sentiment.

Porthos is groaning under him, dropping to his elbows, tilting his hips up and taking Aramis deep. He’s shameless in his need, and Aramis loves it. He loves that they can be like this, fucked open or splayed on his back, even naked in the shower, vulnerable but not weak, not worried about killing that openness with labels or roles.

He’s stroked his hand up Porthos’ spine again, cupping his neck and feeling how loose Porthos is. Boneless against the bed, Porthos has his eyes closed and is just taking it. Taking all of it. Aramis loves being entirely in _this_  moment, not confused by soft kisses or thinking about Porthos’ hands against his scalp. This is Aramis’ favorite kind of fucking, and he knows it’s Porthos’ too, the kind that’s just fucking, and all the better for it.

Raking his fingers up and curling them over Porthos’ shoulder, Aramis stretches over his back and ruts into him. The other hand is flat against Porthos’ chest, stroking it with his fingers, soft while his strokes are hard. He’s fucking as deep as he can from this angle and loving the way it drags over that perfect spot. Porthos gasps again chokes out a groan, and before Aramis can even get a hand around him, Porthos is coming.

He can feel Porthos’ ass clenching around him, and he slides out a bit, just to feel that tightness drag over the length of him. Then back in, so he can feel Porthos’ hips against him when his own balls draw up tight and he’s spilling, so hot, into that gorgeous ass.

He kisses Porthos’ shoulder blade, bites it, kisses it again then pulls out, padding into the bathroom for a washcloth. Aramis wipes himself clean, rinses the cloth with hot water and brings it back into the bedroom. Porthos is on his side, having decided against collapsing in a pool of his own cooling come.

“Here,” Aramis says, tossing the washcloth so it lands on Porthos’ hip.

“My hero.” Porthos grabs it and swipes at his cock, the bed, his own ass. He’s twisting his shoulder back when Aramis swats his hand away.

“Just give it to me, you’re going to get it all over yourself.” He cleans Porthos’ thighs and runs the cloth over his hole. It’s a little puffy, still not too tight, Aramis must have gone harder than he’d thought. Still, neither of them is complaining.

As if on cue, Porthos mumbles into the pillow. “Well, that wasn’t horrible."

“I do have one issue,” Aramis says, tossing the washcloth into his hamper and stretching out on the bed. Porthos’ answers with a questioning hum. “Washing my _hair_?” Aramis says. "What kind of terrible romance movie crap was that?"

Porthos laughs and punches the pillow into shape. “You know you always take too damn long to get ready. Too much primping. I wanted to fuck, and you were going to be in there forever. Did I or did I not have your hair washed in under a minute?"

“Yes, but you neglected the conditioner. I’m going to have to do it again when I get home tonight or it’s going to be dry and brittle."

Porthos stares at him. “Sometimes I wonder if you can hear yourself."

Folding his arms behind his head, Aramis smiles. “Your envy is transparent.” He rolls his head until he’s looking at Porthos. “You had a question."

“I did, yeah. A favor, actually. I need a boyfriend."

Aramis’ eyebrows arch up. “Pardon?"

"The firm’s memorial day picnic is on Sunday and it would be good if I had company."

“Sure,” Aramis says. “Of course, but why would it be good?"

“I’m trying to get moved into the new lead position that just opened up, and the big boss is one of those old fucks who thinks employees with spouses or long-term partners make better workers. I figure we’ve made this boyfriends thing work before, why not now?"

Aramis rolls onto his side and leans down to bite the meat of Porthos’ shoulder then lick over the bite mark. Not for any good reason, he just feels like it. “He’s that old-fashioned, but he’s fine if the other half of the couple is also a man?"

Porthos laughs into the pillow. “Turns out his grandson is gay; so that’s less of an issue than us eating at our desks."

Aramis grins. “Might get ants. So, he hasn’t figured out yet that you can keep a single guy at the office later and work him harder?"

“No, and since I like my evenings away from work, I’m inclined to keep him in the dark.” He swats Aramis’ head before he can bite again. “If we’re couple-y enough, that guy in Sales might ask me out. He seems like the type who’d go for the ‘forbidden fruit’ angle."

“You get a date, maybe a promotion, and I get food I don’t have to cook myself. There’s no downside here, Porthos. It’ll be almost better than you getting Star Wars and grateful head. I think we’ve stumbled on a brilliant problem-solving technique."

Rolling out of bed, Aramis starts to dress.

“Athos was wrong; remarks like that one are the reason."

“And here I thought you loved me for my ass."

“Sure,” Porthos’ mouth curls in a smile, "but then you put your jeans back on."

Aramis blames his lightheadedness on how much blood is still in his cock. He tugs his t-shirt over his head. “You’ll have the memories to keep you warm at night.”

“I’d rather have the guy from Sales."

Aramis snorts. On the way out, he drags his fingers over the sole of Porthos’ foot just to watch him flinch and jerk it away. The fact that Porthos is ticklish is endlessly amusing. He makes a quick stop in the kitchen before leaving, yelling, “I stole a banana; text me the details about Sunday,” as he closes the front door behind him.

 

 

"Now, tell me who everyone is."

Aramis is sitting backward at the picnic table, resting on his elbows and watching the people milling around the park. There are families and couples and while everyone seems very nice, Aramis feeling claustrophobic just watching one of the women cling to her husband and look at him adoringly.

"That's my boss," Porthos says, pointing to a short woman with a blunt bob and kind eyes. "That," he points to the short woman's conversation partner, "is Lisa from UX development."

"The one who heats fish in the office microwave?"

"That's her," Porthos agrees, tipping back his bottle for a long swallow.

"See, you're not the only one who listens!"

Porthos looks at Aramis out of the corner of his eye. “I’m not praising you for having basic conversational skills, Aramis. Okay, this guy here,” Porthos uses his beer to indicate a tall, stern-looking man dressed exactly the way Aramis would have expected an executive forced to attend a picnic with his employees to dress. "This guy is the big boss, the one I'm trying to look good for."

"Ah, my raison d'être for the day."

Porthos stares at him. “Seriously, do you hear yourself?"

"You love me for it."

"No, I love you for--"

"Porthos, there are children present."

Snorting, Porthos tips his beer up again.

Aramis smirks and steals Porthos' drink. "Let's be dutiful and socialize and then go make out behind that tree."

"Oh, last one," Porthos says and points to a thing young man with perfect hair who has been poured into his skinny jeans.

"Your dream date from Sales?"

“If we play our cards right," Porthos says. He snaps his head back to stare at Aramis, taking his hand and twining their fingers together. Porthos leans in and kisses Aramis' neck. "Sorry, he's looking."

"No problem," Aramis says. He pulls back and cradles Porthos' face in his hands, kissing him softly on the mouth. "Come on now, hold my hand and introduce me around."

Porthos’ ‘big boss’ has a remarkably inbred name with potentially more than one hyphen. Aramis catches the first name, Alan, and frantically tries to remember the rest.

“Mr. Dunlow-Harris, this is my partner, Aramis.” Thank God for Porthos, who knows that Aramis is terrible with names.

“Pleasure to meet you, sir.” Aramis puts on his best patient-soothing smile.

“Now now, it’s a fun day. Call me, Alan.” He looks like it physically pains him.

“Thank you for hosting such a wonderful picnic, Alan. It’s nice for me to get to see all the people Porthos likes and respects so much. A chance to put faces to names."

A kind-faced woman, Alan's age, joins them. “So nice to get to meet the families that support everyone who works so hard for Alan,” she says. Her name is Bethany, she’s Alan’s wife and while she’s wearing an actual cashmere twin-set and pearls, Aramis suspects she’s the type to spike her morning coffee or be a cutthroat bridge player. Alan introduces them to her, calling Porthos ‘very promising’.

She smiles at Aramis. “Now, you must tell us how you two met.” She’s looking back and forth between them. Porthos opens his mouth, but Aramis beats him to it. Aramis got to be the heroic kitten savior last time, this time, it’s Porthos’ turn.

“I’m afraid I nearly knocked him out with a rolling pin,” Aramis says. Bethany laughs politely and Aramis knows he’s on the right track. “The back room at my mother’s bakery has been my second home since I had to be carried there in a carseat. So imagine my surprise when one day I went back there and sitting at her desk was a total stranger. And the safe was open.” He laughs and tries to make it as self-deprecating as possible. Porthos is staring at him.

“Naturally I jumped to all the wrong conclusions and grabbed the nearest heavy object so I could defend my mother. There I am, brandishing a marble rolling pin,” Aramis mimes raising it over his head, "and demanding to know what he was doing there, when my mother comes through the back door and starts yelling at _me_!” He laughs and wipes at his eyes. “I couldn't understand why she wasn't more upset about this intruder, but she set me straight as only a mother could. The business was starting to become successful enough that the books were getting to be more than Mom could handle, so she’d installed a new accounting program to help but she couldn’t figure it out. Porthos had been a customer for years, and they'd become friendly, so when her favorite regular had heard her saying how hard it was, and he stepped in and offered to help."

Bethany is making the most adorable cooing noises and Alan is smiling and Porthos is still staring at him. Aramis squeezes his hand. “Porthos came in after work every day for a week and sat with my mother. He showed her how to use this program and gave her a few small pointers, but most importantly, to me at least, he convinced her she _could_  do it.” He turns and looks at Porthos, smiling at him and not looking away as he says, “He’s amazing."

“Well I imagine your mother was pleased to see you hit it off," Alan says, "after such an inauspicious beginning.”

Aramis turns to smile at him. "I think it would have broken her heart if we hadn't gotten along; I'm convinced she's had plans for us since the first time Porthos walked through the door."

Looking back to Porthos, Aramis sees that he's still staring, but there's a smile playing at the corners of his mouth, a hint of those dangerous dimples. Aramis smiles back at him, beatific.

From across the picnic area, someone calls for Porthos. Aramis makes to excuse them both but Porthos puts a hand on his arm. "No, love. You stay here, they just need a hand with the grill, I'll be right back." Porthos kisses his cheek, then again just behind his ear where he can secretly whisper, "Show off." Aramis smiles and turns his head to kiss Porthos on the mouth.

"Go on, go bring fire to the masses." Porthos laughs and jogs away.

“Really, a very promising young man," Alan says.

"I'm glad to hear it. I know how hard he works, how hard he tries. We met not long after he got his certification and came to work for you.” This part he doesn’t have to make up, Aramis remembers because he'd been certain that accountants didn't come with asses like Porthos'.

"Often newcomers find that department dull, particularly young ones. I remember hoping that this young man would stick around, that he could be a real asset."

"I hope he has been," Aramis says. "I know that's his goal."

"He is, yes.” Alan adjusts his glasses. "His performance is exemplary and his work ethic is admirable. You must be very proud."

"I am," Aramis says. "I'm very proud of him." It's not a lie, is the thing. Aramis knows a little about Porthos' past, knows how hard it was for him to believe in himself and his ability to succeed. He knows that Porthos took a natural aptitude for numbers and turned it into a career where he's respected and praised. Aramis is incredibly proud. He's never put it into words until now, but as someone who works tirelessly at a frequently thankless, occasionally very dull job, Aramis knows how hard it is and he admires the hell out of Porthos. It's part of why he loves having Porthos as his friend.

Aramis can hear himself talking, but he's not sure where the words are coming from, or how to make them stop. "It is a pleasure to see him at the end of a day when he's been able to work out a tricky problem or help someone meet a deadline. He takes real pleasure in it and the people he works with. I never get tired of seeing him come through the door with that satisfied grin and prop his feet on the coffee table and say, 'It was a good day.' And I always look forward to hearing what made it good. I'm glad you see that in him, too."

There's a companionable silence while he and Bethany and Alan watch Porthos finally get the grill lit and lead a round of high-fives before rinsing the accelerant off his hands and jogging back over.

"Sorry about that, but I had a worry that Neha was about to burn his eyebrows off if I let him try again."

"Not a problem, son," Alan says, clapping him on the shoulder. "It's been a pleasure to talk to someone who is as big a fan of yours as I am. I'll leave you to your afternoon. Make sure to say goodbye before you leave." Alan offers Bethany his arm and they wander off to watch the children over in the playground area.

"Well," Porthos says, "did he say anything about me?"

"He seems to think you're a great guy with patience and determination and talent. And because you're my friend I didn't tell him that you're also a filthy pervert who likes it when I wear--" The rest is lost as Porthos covers Aramis' mouth with first his hand and then his own mouth instead.

When the kiss ends, Porthos grins. "Just for that, I'm going to tell the guy who organized this that you suggested next year we should have sack races."

Aramis smiles at him, all warmth and crinkly eyes. "At that point, it'll be a problem for the guy from sales or whomever his successor is. Do let me know how it goes."

"Dick," Porthos says, and kisses him. Aramis opens one eye to see if the guy from sales is watching and deepens the kiss. Porthos moans into it and when he pulls away, he winks. "Nice. That was a 'this one's mine' kiss and I know he was watching. You're good."

Aramis just squeezes his hand. His stomach is suddenly tight. Probably hunger, it's well past noon. “We should eat."

The food is standard fare for a picnic, but thanks to Porthos the burgers taste less like lighter fluid than they might otherwise. They find an open spot at a picnic table and Aramis has his mouth full of potato salad when Porthos speaks.

"Does your mom really own a bakery?"

Aramis turns his face up to the sun while he chews, soaking it in. "You think d'Artagnan happened to stumble on the best empanadas in the city completely by accident?" Porthos curls his hand over Aramis' and squeezes. Aramis checks to see if the guy from Sales is watching. He's not, but Porthos is still squeezing his hand. There's absolutely no one watching Porthos look at Aramis fondly, but he's doing it anyway.

"That was prime, grade A, epic bullshit, my man. Thank you for that. You managed to make me look all selfless _and_  like I'm good at what I do."

Aramis shrugs. "Just doing my job." He should pull his hand free. He doesn't. "And it's easy to make you look good."

Porthos' fingers are loosening a little, and Aramis is wondering if he should stop this since no one is looking when suddenly someone _is_  looking. The woman Porthos pointed out as his boss, his actual boss who needs no impressing, is sliding onto the picnic bench next to Porthos.

"I'm so glad you could come!" She's talking to Aramis, but it's Porthos who answers.

"Isha, this is my partner, Aramis." Shaking her hand means Aramis has to finally pull his hand free. He takes Isha's hand before he can start to miss the warmth.

"So nice to meet you."

"I won't keep you both, I know you’re eating. I just didn't want to miss my chance to meet your young man, Porthos." Her gaze shifts to Aramis and he feels pinned. He needs to watch his step, Isha seems like the type who can smell bullshit like blood in the water. "You be good to Porthos, he's one of the good ones."

Aramis swallows the bite he’s been chewing. "I couldn't agree more. Every day I know how lucky I am to have him, and I try to make sure he knows that." If she's looking for a lie on his face, she won't find it. Aramis _does_  know how lucky he is to have Porthos in his life. He tells Porthos all the time that they're lucky. Lucky to have their own lives, to be able to make and cancel plans at the drop of a hat without petty repercussions. Lucky to laugh and fuck and not collapse under the weight of what would be expected of them if they were dating. Lucky.

Isha pats Aramis' hand and lets it go. Porthos immediately takes it in his again. "I'll leave you two to the sunshine and the burgers, if I don't say hello to Alan before he goes, I'll be forced to clean the dungeons." Her eyes twinkle and Aramis thinks he's never liked anyone this utterly terrifying before.

No less than three other people come up to say hello or introduce themselves. Every one of them has something kind and glowing to say about Porthos and Aramis agrees with every one of them. He never lies, but somehow he feels a little worse each time. It’s starting to feel like he is lying, that by saying these things about Porthos under false pretenses, he somehow doesn’t mean them at all.

Aramis wants to take all of these people, Isha and Alan and Bethany and that idiot from Sales and shake them all. He wants to yell, 'I’m not lying about that part! I’m only lying about the romance, about the dating, about the hand-holding. Everything I say about how amazing he is, that’s all true!'

“Wanna go back to yours and fuck?"

Porthos’ voice jerks Aramis back to the present. “What?"

“I said we can leave now and go do something fun, do you want to go back to your place and watch a movie or screw around?"

Aramis opens his mouth to agree but stops. Because no, he doesn’t.

He’s not stupid, Aramis knows this about himself. But even his brain can only handle so much at once. In the last week, he’s had sweet, slow kisses, he’s had Porthos’ hands in his soapy hair. He’s spent hours telling people how amazing Porthos is and nearly every word was true. Sure, they’ve also had fast, hard, messy sex and told lies about how the met; they’ve put that poor sales guy in their crosshairs like hunters.

The problem is that Aramis isn’t sure he can move from one to the other fast enough. He isn’t sure, when Porthos drapes Aramis’ leg over his shoulder and fucks into him, which of all the things mixed up in his head right now will show in his eyes.

It would be a disaster to lose what they have just because Aramis is so good at pretending that it takes him a while to turn it off again.

He wants a drink. He wants to sleep. He wants time. He wants to call one of the half-dozen people in his phone who wouldn’t be irritated to go home after the sex is over and fuck them until his head is clear again. The way he’s feeling right now, not sure what to do or how to be or what’s expected, all it’s doing is reminding him of how he felt the last time he was in a relationship. Aramis almost wants to laugh at the idea of being this knotted up during a fake date.

“I think I’m gonna call it a day. I’ve got an early surgery I’m assisting with tomorrow."

A frown flits over Porthos’ face but it clears before Aramis can even be sure it was there. “Yeah, okay. C’mon, I’ll drive you home."

It’s a short drive, and quiet. Porthos tells a few stories about the people at the picnic and Aramis listens. They talk a bit about Alan and Aramis recounts the parts of the conversation Porthos missed. Aramis thinks that if Porthos asks what’s wrong he can blame it on the combination of sun and beer, but Porthos never does.

“Thanks again,” Porthos says as they pull up in front of Aramis’ building. “Though now I know how you felt after movie night. I think when I have to tell them we broke up they’re going to miss you more than they’d ever miss me.” They both laugh and Aramis can feel the confusion start to calm just a little.

“Movie and hang out tomorrow?"

“Absolutely,” Aramis says. “I’ll call you."

Of course he will. They talk every day. He'll be fine tomorrow, that's plenty of time.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay! The thing eating my brain has let go and let this get back where it belongs. Best Editor Ever goes to Cee, who fixed everything. Literally everything.
> 
> For extra heartbreak the author recommends putting [this](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=UdVH8FnG2sQ) on repeat while reading.

The misunderstanding starts like this:

"I'm having some people over for dinner on Friday, it would be great to add some other people." Athos pokes Porthos until he looks up from his phone.

"Come again?"

"I said, could you and Aramis come to dinner on Friday?, I need another couple at the table."

"Both of us?" Porthos wants to make sure before he reaches out to Aramis. They've spoken since the picnic, but they haven't seen each other. Aramis says he's been busy and Porthos knows that sometimes the clinic goes through periods like this. He's missed Aramis, though, so this would be a nice excuse to get together. A nice excuse that wouldn't involve having to say, 'I miss you.' Porthos is having enough issues without having to go that far out on a limb.

"Yes, of course. I can hardly invite one of you without the other, can I?"

They're in Athos' living room, lounging on the sofas and enjoying some after-dinner laziness. D'Artagnan has his head in Athos' lap and his feet over the arm of the sofa, and Porthos keeps reaching out to pinch d'Artagnan's ankle, just to watch him jerk and Athos scowl. It's been a diverting game, but not enough to distract from the fact that it's just the three of them. Constance is on nights this month, so they knew she wouldn't be here, but Aramis' last-minute cancellation was a surprise.

It would be a lie to say that Porthos isn't a little glad of the space. After the picnic, after watching Aramis say so many wonderful things about him, after all the hand-holding and soft kisses, Porthos had been a bit of a mess. He feels ridiculous. For four years they've been the masters of sex without romance, but two days of pretending to date and Porthos finds himself missing the weight of Aramis' hand in his, and the way he'd smiled while he told Isha how lucky they were to have each other. Porthos finds himself with _feelings_.

This is what he didn't want. Wondering if he's said the wrong thing when he should be working, picking apart every word of a text before he sends it, all of this is what he hates about relationships, and why he avoids them. They make him unsure and anxious, they make him feel like if he makes a wrong choice he could be alone again and that. That is terrifying on more levels than Porthos wants to think about. It’s been the best thing about his friendship with Aramis: how can you be left by someone you were never with?

Except here he is, missing and feeling and questioning. Still, it's gotten better over the last few days and it'll keep getting better. He picks up his phone to text Aramis, and firmly ignores the part of him that’s excited for an excuse to hold Aramis' hand again.

_Dinner party at A &D's on Friday. He needs a third couple, ready for another performance?_

He puts the phone on the coffee table and tells himself he's not looking at it. He tells himself that every forty-five seconds until Aramis replies ten minutes later.

_You're on! Tell Athos that if I have to play happy couples, I want to see him in an apron that says Kiss the Cook and D in heels._

Porthos laughs. When Athos raises an eyebrow at him he says, "Just Aramis being Aramis."

"It's nice to see you guys like this," d'Artagnan says.

"Laughing?" Porthos frowns.

D'Artagnan rolls his eyes. "Yeah. Laughing. Absolutely." He shakes his head and Porthos shrugs before tapping out a quick reply.

"Right, I'm off,” he announces after sending the message. “Tomorrow is the day we cut checks and I need to get to work early. There'll be a line outside my office at 8 as it is. Text me the details about Friday, and I'll make sure Aramis is wearing something presentable."

"Please make sure he understands that anything he might wear to the club on Saturday night does _not_  count as presentable for this dinner," Athos says.

"You're just ruining all my fun, Athos."

"What kind of dress-up party you two have after you leave is a matter of supreme indifference to me."

Porthos stands and puts his coat on. "That's right, keep pretending like you and d'Artagnan don't have nights when you put your club clothes on and reenact your first meeting."

D'Artagnan chokes on his drink, and Athos arches his eyebrow at Porthos.

Twirling his keys around his finger, Porthos grins at them. "See you Friday, then."

 

 

There’s a knock on the door to Porthos’ office just after 5:30 and when he looks up, Aramis is standing in his doorway. It’s startling but... nice. It’s nice to see him there, and Porthos is going to need more than a second to deal with that. He schools his face into a cocky grin.

“Here I was hoping you’d show up in the scrubs and we’d get to play doctor."

“I had a turtle shit down the front of them today, but if you want me to get them out of the car I can.” Porthos wrinkles his nose and Aramis laughs. “Though I will say I’m loving _your_ look. I don’t think I’ve ever seen you still in work mode."

Porthos has on his standard button-down and tie. The shirt is crisp white and the tie is silver, diamonds in a tone-on-tone sheen. It’s been a day of lots of spreadsheets and no meetings so Porthos' sleeves are rolled up to his elbows and his blazer is tossed on the chair in front of his desk. He knows the contrast with his skin is striking, and Porthos watches Aramis swallow hard.

“The tie doing it for you?"

“Fuck the tie, it’s the glasses I’m loving most. How about I close this door and we can pretend you’re the professor and my paper is very, very late."

Porthos takes his reading glasses off, folds them and taps them on his lower lip. “Sure, we could, but later when d’Artagnan is complaining about _his_ students turning their papers in late I don’t want to watch you choke on your food."

This time it's Aramis with his nose wrinkled in distaste. "Surely we can find some filthy fantasy to go with those rolled-up sleeves and those sexy glasses that _doesn't_  involve the actual profession of one of our nearest and dearest."

Porthos stands and stretches, enjoying the way Aramis' eyes trace his body. "Well, now we have something to do during the drive, don't we?" He closes up shop, sliding his laptop into his bag and grabbing his blazer before flicking the lights off and locking the door. He's glad to have his hands full; it keeps his fingers from twitching in Aramis' direction, wanting to hold hands like they’d done at the picnic. He doesn't want a relationship. Aramis doesn't want a relationship. And the more things Porthos can do to remind his brain that this is their reality, the better.

They spend the car ride teasing each other and talking about their work weeks, and Porthos loves every snarky, happy moment of it. No matter what else they are, Aramis is one of his best friends and times like this are one of the reasons. It's like they're on solid footing again at last after everything their performance at the picnic had stirred up. A moment after that thought, Porthos is startled to realize that they're about to upset the balance again. At least this time he knows what he's susceptible to, he knows it going in and he can keep an eye on his behavior and head it off at the pass. He's got this.

He's got this.

 

 

They don't bother knocking, they haven't bothered knocking for years; instead they come through the door shouting greetings to the house. They're family here. D'Artagnan greets them with hugs and takes the wine Porthos brought. When d'Artagnan raises his eyebrow, Porthos gives him his sweetest smile. "If you're having a grown-up dinner party, then I'm bringing grown-up hostess gifts. So, have some wine, hostess."

D'Artagnan rolls his eyes and, miraculously, does not hit Porthos on the head with the wine.

As with all good parties, this one has congregated in and around the kitchen. Athos is standing at the stove doing something delicious and sinful with mussels, and Porthos is sure it will be good enough to excuse the fact that Athos is not wearing a Kiss the Cook apron.

"Oh good, you're here,” Athos says to Aramis. "Come taste this. Barry will be too nice and d'Artagnan has become too accustomed to my work." He hands Aramis a spoon.

Porthos watches as Aramis scoops up some of the sauce and tastes it. His dick twitches when Aramis' eyes roll back in his head and the moaning starts. Good, Porthos can handle this kind of reaction.

"That's fantastic, Athos. We had this before, but this time the shallots are milder and it's a nice balance to the white wine. Perfection."

Athos scoffs. "I wouldn't go that far, but thank you. Ah, yes, introductions are in order."

Barry Noguera is Athos' best friend from law school. They somehow made it through those three years together without losing their minds, and credit each other for that miracle. He's a short, energetic man with bright eyes, and Porthos suspects if you tied his hands behind his back, Barry would have no idea how to talk. His wife, Marissa, has a kind smile and an impudent nose, and she and Aramis are already getting on well.

Athos points to a big wooden bowl on the other counter. "Porthos, would you toss the dressing into the salad?"

Porthos gives him a flat stare. "You want me to toss your salad?"

“Isn’t that usually d’Artagnan’s job?” Barry asks, and Aramis chokes on his water.

“Pretty sure I can handle it this once,” Porthos says with a wink and gets to work on the salad. “So Barry, did you go into bleeding-heart law like our Athos?”

The question seems to be all the prompting Barry needs to launch into a discussion of how while Athos’ public policy practice focuses on zoning and statues surrounding sustainable energy, his own work is fair-housing litigation in low-income communities. He’s just warming up to explaining the superior virtue of providing direct services—and Athos has started to talk over him about systemic impact through policy law—when Marissa turns to Porthos with a twinkle in her eye.

“Yes. That means yes. He is also in bleeding-heart law."

Porthos grins. “Are you the conversation warden, then?"

“I could let them keep going, but I’m hungry and I’d like to eat before Tuesday."

“You’re terrible, and I love you,” Barry says and kisses her fondly.

Dinner is… easy. The food is fantastic and the conversation is fun.

Halfway through the meal, Aramis leans forward and asks, “Now, Marissa, at the risk of sounding clichéd, what do you do?"

She’s a therapist, as it turns out.

“My specialty is family and adolescent counseling, but I work with some couples as well.” She can’t tell them any actual stories about her clients, so instead she tells them stories about things people have randomly divulged to her upon hearing her profession.

Porthos starts laughing when starts the story of the little old man with the foot fetish who bent her ear at a kindergarten co-op meeting, and he doesn’t stop when she moves into talking about how the kid who helps with their groceries wants to know if it’s okay that sometimes he likes boys as well as girls.

Some time in between those two stories, Porthos slides his hand over and curls his fingers around Aramis’. It could be dangerous, this contact, this burst of warmth where their skin is touching, but Porthos reminds himself that it’s to keep up the pretense. He reminds himself that they’ve both sworn off relationships, that feelings fade, and that this is just a thing that feels good right now. Only right now.

Aramis squeezes his hand and rubs his thumb over Porthos’ knuckles, and Porthos feels something twist in his heart. It’s going to feel good well beyond the moment, and he knows it. It’s probably going to hurt even longer.

Aramis takes his hand back a few minutes later so he can spread butter across one of the crusty rolls they’re having with dinner. Porthos swears he doesn’t miss the warmth.

By contrast, Barry and Marissa hold hands nearly the entire meal, but it doesn’t stop them from eating, gesticulating wildly during conversation, or picking on each other. Every time Barry’s phrasing gets suggestive, Marissa makes a dirty joke; every time Marissa tells a story about one of the terrifying things their daredevil four-year-old has done, Barry says it’s her genes that give him a death wish.

At the moment, Barry is giving Athos hell for having quit the public defenders’ office and gone corporate, and Porthos can see that while d’Artagnan and Athos are watching him, Aramis’ gaze is focused on where Barry and Marissa’s hands are joined. The look on his face is impenetrable. Porthos has been enjoying watching a couple obviously in love who don’t turn his stomach, but Aramis seems to be seeing nothing more than the same deplorable behavior he hates in the coffee shop on Sunday mornings.

Porthos thinks that if he could have a relationship that involved the level of smartass that Marissa and Barry have, but also love, it might be something he could think about contemplating one day. But not with someone who looks at those joined hands with the kind of blank disdain he sees on Aramis’ face right now.

“Last week I spent twenty hours getting favorable lease conditions for a wind farm, Barry,” Athos is saying. “I hardly think that counts as turning my back on my principles.”

“Doesn’t change the fact that you sold out to The Man.” Barry shrugs.

Porthos leans back and drapes one arm over the back of Aramis’ chair, settling in for the show.

“Barry, you know where I’m from, you’ve seen where I went to boarding school. I didn’t _become_ The Man, I _am_  The Man. I come from twenty generations of The Man. It’s practically the motto on my family crest."

“The crest is also a man,” d’Artagnan says. Athos shoots him a raised eyebrow before turning back to Barry.

“I think that after knowing me this long, insisting that I was ever anything other than part of the establishment is disingenuous at best. Besides, I needed the pay increase so I could have a kept boy."

D’Artagnan hums in agreement. “He’s got to keep me in textbooks and paywall subscriptions."

Marissa laughs and turns to Porthos. He swears it sounds like a gunshot when she asks, “And how did you two meet?"

Porthos turns a soft smile on Aramis. Aramis smiles back. It’s Porthos’ turn, but this time instead of making each other look good, they’ve got to make Athos look good.

“It’s funny—,” Aramis starts, then trails off.

“Well,” Porthos picks up, “it’s Athos’ fault, really. There was an accident, just a tiny bump, and the other driver was so hot—."

“He’d have let me get away with anything, really,” Aramis winks.

“But Athos saw it and pulled over and insisted we exchange information. If it weren’t for Athos, I’d have let Aramis leave and never seen him again."

Aramis leans in and strokes his nose up the side of Porthos’ face.

D’Artagnan frowns. “What?"

Porthos frowns back. “What?"

“That’s not true. None of that is true, you’re just trying to hide the fact that you met in a club.” He turns to Marissa. "I’d taken my best friend Aramis out to go dancing, and Porthos had taken Athos to the club to play Mock the Twinks—"

“People-watching,” Athos says. “We were people-watching."

D’Artagnan rolls his eyes. “Whatever. Athos had been working on this big case and hadn’t been out of the house for weeks except to go to the office. They both went for drinks at the same time and saw each other across the bar and there was a connection."

It’s _almost_  romantic when d’Artagnan tells it. Porthos thinks about that night, feeling the sweat running down the small of his back and shoving his t-shirt into his back pocket before trying to get the bartender’s attention. He remembers feeling hands slide into his pockets and hearing a voice say, “Tell me that drink can wait until after I get to kiss you nearly everywhere.” When Porthos had asked why only _nearly_ , the smooth voice had laughed and said, “We’re in _public_ , pervert."

It had been Aramis, of course it had. All that brass and confidence and less than a minute later they were in a back corner of the club, Porthos slamming Aramis into the Staff Only door, and shoving his thigh between Aramis’ legs so Aramis could ride it.

“There was certainly a connection,” Athos says, taking his turn to roll his eyes.

Porthos tries to not look openly confused. Surely d’Artagnan isn’t expecting them to tell the “How we became fuckbuddies” story, when they’re specifically at this dinner to play a couple. He darts a glance at Aramis who gives the tiniest shrug. Well, if d’Artagnan is saying they don’t have to pretend, then they won’t. Porthos still slowly counts to ten before releasing Aramis’ hand. “Well, who could resist that face, eh?"

Aramis grins at him. He seems to be fine dropping the act as well. “I thought the same thing."

“You didn’t even see my face until you’d propositioned me."

“Well, I knew it had to be at least half as nice as your shoulders, and that was good enough for me. Imagine my luck, it turned out to be even better.”

Porthos grins, but he puts his hands in his lap. Keeping them on the table just made his fingers itch to take Aramis’ hand back. Fuck. He’d been so sure going into tonight that he was prepared. Maybe it’ll get easier, now that they’re not pretending to be something they’re not. Maybe he’ll forget how much he’d been enjoying the game.

He and Aramis both relax a bit more when the attention turns to Athos and d’Artagnan again.

“Wait,” Marissa says. “Was that the same night you two met?"

Athos sighs and settles back in his chair. “How unmerciful is the shit I’m about to receive?"

D’Artagnan squeezes Athos’ hand and says, “You don’t deserve any. I was standing there watching my ride hook up with someone and wondering if I’d brought enough cash to get a cab home _and_  a drink, and then there you were. After that it didn’t matter if we were in a club or a park or a museum, because all I could see was you."

Aramis rolls his eyes so hard his head actually moves, but it’s Barry who comments. He turns to Porthos and says, “How do you even stand this?"

“I’ll be honest with you, sometimes the only way we get through is by giving them hell."

“I can imagine, because I love my wife, and I know we’re obnoxiously in love, but I think that gave me cavities."

“I didn’t realize you’d never met d’Artagnan before,” Aramis says.

“It’s been years since we’ve been back for more than a quick visit,” Marissa says. “We’ve been in San Francisco since right before Xavier was born, and that was four years ago."

Aramis is in full polite mode now, and Porthos thinks he’s so grateful to be finished answering questions for a while that he could just kiss Aramis. He winces and tries not to think about how much he wants to kiss Aramis, for whatever reason.

“Is he your only one?” Aramis asks.

Marissa shakes her head and swallows another sip of wine. “No, Angelica is almost two. So you can imagine that it’s nice for us to get a night out together.” She rests her head on Barry’s shoulder and he kisses the top of her head. “Especially since we haven’t had one since our regular sitter left for college a few months ago. I’d never tell Barry’s parents that we moved back here for the free babysitting, but it’s at least part of the reason."

Barry smiles into her hair.

Aramis points a finger at d’Artagnan, “ _Months_ without a night out. Remember that fact the next time you and The Man over there start fantasizing about playing happy families."

Athos stares at him. “You have four younger sisters, Aramis. Do you honestly think you wouldn’t be our first choice for a babysitter?"

Aramis rears back, his face shocked and terrified. D’Artagnan starts laughing and Athos smirks and Porthos wants to thank them all, because remembering how little Aramis wants any kind of stability in his life makes it just a little easier to sit here next to him and not touch. It gives him hope that after a few more encounters in their normal roles, he won’t feel the itch at all.

Barry laughs around a mouthful of bread before swallowing and saying, “You know they’ll be the type who say they’d rather stay in as a family and _mean_  it. As opposed to the rest of us who just pretend to mean it and pray for bedtime and the chance to eat a meal with both hands."

Marissa grins at him and toasts him with her wine. “Excellent parenting, sweetheart.”

“The shitty thing is,” Barry says, “Athos is incapable of doing something and not being good at it. And he’s incapable of being good at something and not being smug about it. They’ll be insufferable and we’ll all still love them.” He grins and waves his fork around to encompass himself and Marissa as well as Aramis and Porthos. “It’s our lot in life."

Porthos likes this guy. Likes him a lot. He likes that Barry gives Athos shit, gives his wife shit, and takes the shit she gives him. Porthos thinks about Barry smiling into his wife’s hair, a tiny gesture borne of years of closeness. It was hardly a moment at all, but Porthos knows it would have been just the thing to set him off if he didn’t know them personally. He and Aramis would have mocked the sappiness of it. With these two, it’s just another moment in the same relationship that has all the shit-talking. If that was a thing he could have, teasing and laughing and still giving Athos and d’Artagnan shit about being too sweet, if it could come together with holding hands and smiling softly into each other’s hair just because they can’t _not_... If that could be his, would Porthos want it?

Almost before his mind can ask the question, Porthos stomps on it, all too aware that he might already know the answer: yes, but only with Aramis.

The rest of the meal, Porthos is only mostly present. He smiles and laughs at all the right points, he even tells a story or two himself. When Aramis is talking, Porthos looks at him and smiles and doesn’t touch him, doesn’t stare.

He finally starts to feel normal again when he’s in the kitchen doing dishes with d’Artagnan.

“I like how you say that Athos has to keep you in textbooks, but don’t mention the collar budget at all."

D’Artagnan slaps his hands on the counter. “We do not have a goddamn collar budget. You’re never going to let that go, are you?”

Porthos smirks. “You can just say _fine. leather. goods._ We’ll know what you mean."

“You are an asshole."

Grinning, Porthos flicks soapy water at him.

D’Artagnan snaps the towel at him. “It’s a shame Constance is still on third shift, she’d have loved to see you guys tonight. We’ve been waiting for you two to get to this point."

Porthos frowns in confusion. “What are you talking about? We’re the same as we always were.”

D’Artagnan stares. “You mean you’re still friends?"

“We’re friends with _fantastic_ benefits, d’Artagnan. That’s it. Everything else is put on. I thought you knew, that you’d changed your mind about us pretending to be boyfriends, and that’s why you called bullshit on our fake meeting story."

“No. No,” d’Artagnan shakes his head. “I had no idea what you were doing. Why the hell would we want you to be pretending?"

“That’s what Athos said. He said he needed another couple."

D’Artagnan drops his elbows to the counter and his head into his hands. “No, you idiot. He knew I’d be nervous about meeting his old friends and he wanted me to have friendly faces and some other conversation besides law school war stories all night. You saw what him and Barry were like. Also we just _like_  you guys. You’re our _friends_. Which is why Athos asked you to _dinner_."

Porthos scrubs at his face with his hand. “Okay, that makes more sense. I couldn’t figure out why he’d need us to fake it for his friends and I couldn’t figure out why you wanted us to stop, I just knew you did. That’s why Aramis and I dropped the act after you said something."

“No, you didn’t.” D’Artagnan’s face is honestly incredulous.

“Yeah, we did. No more hand holding or dopey looks or nuzzling noses or whatever other shit couples do."

“Okay, first of all,” d’Artagnan argues, “No one else at that table nuzzled noses. Not even us, and we’re the gross ones. But also you spent like half of dessert with your arm across the back of Aramis’ chair, and every time you talked he’d lean into you. This is what I don’t understand—"

“Porthos, you ready?” Aramis is standing in the doorway, jingling his keys in his hand.

Porthos stares at him, trying to remember doing any of the things d’Artagnan is talking about. None of it is there. All the false affection stopped when they stopped pretending. He’s sure of it. Porthos blinks twice before shaking his head just an inch, and pulling the drain plug in the sink.

“Yeah,” he says. He wrings out the dishcloth and drapes it over the faucet. “All done."

They say their goodbyes to Athos and d’Artagnan, exchange hugs with Barry and Marissa, and when Porthos says, “I hope we’re gonna be seeing more of you two,” he’s almost surprised to find that he means it.

 

 

Aramis is quiet for the first few minutes of the drive, but it’s not their usual companionable silence. Porthos can feel the tension sitting on them both, and he can’t take it.

He wishes it were anything other than nervous babbling when he says, “That could have been worse."

Aramis laughs. “I think that’s the first time I’ve voluntarily sat down to dinner with a smug couple other than Athos and d'Artagnan."

“Yeah, well, Athos bribed us with food."

“Really good food. And it’s always nice to have fresh blood to pick on d’Artagnan and The Man with us."

For a few blocks they talk about their favorite jabs from Barry and Marissa, but soon, too soon, Aramis is sitting at a stoplight with his hand hovering over the turn signal arm.

“Do you think we have time to fuck really fast before I have to get you home for curfew?” His grin is so very, very Aramis. This is the kind of wicked flirt Porthos has been friends with for years; this is the relationship they have.

This is the only relationship they have.

Regardless of how much Porthos wants to pretend that d’Artagnan wasn’t seeing things, that Aramis really _did_ lean into him as he spoke, that Porthos put his hand over the back of Aramis’ chair and Aramis didn’t flinch away, this is their reality.

He’s more than a little frustrated, honestly. He’d felt better, near the end of the dinner itself, once he’d stopped touching Aramis. He’d felt the ground beneath his feet again as they were starting the dishes, but d’Artagnan had to go and pull it out from under him again.

Looking at Aramis, in the red-tinged dark under this stoplight, looking at his hands around the steering wheel and the curl of his mouth, Porthos gives up fighting.

It’s a game now. How much is he willing to take, knowing that he can’t ever have more? How much 'not enough’ is too much? How long until it hurts more than it doesn’t? Porthos is playing against himself, and he knows that means he’s going to lose no matter what. Maybe that’s why he opens his mouth and what comes out are the dumbest words he’s ever said:

“Yeah, man. We’ve got plenty of time."

Aramis’ grin gets even wider for a second; he flips on the right-turn signal, and pulls out of the intersection.

Inside Aramis’ apartment, they kiss like they’ve always done, fast and filthy and when Aramis sinks his teeth into Porthos’ lip he remembers how fucking perfect this always is. Aramis’ fingers are quick on Porthos’ shirt buttons, and when he sinks to his knees and looks up, those clever hands working at Porthos’ belt buckle, he says, “I’ve been dying to get you out of this for hours."

Porthos drops his head back against the wall and closes his eyes. This is such a mistake, but fuck it if he’s giving up now.

He looks back down at Aramis. “Well? You gonna do something about it, or are you gonna talk to it all night?”

Aramis laughs and Porthos laughs along with him and thinks that yeah, he can do this. Even in the midst of this storm in his head, this is something they’ve always had. Even when they’re pretending to be a blissful couple they’re still themselves. It never goes away and Porthos loves that. This is easy. This part will always be easy. What’s going to be hard is hiding the rest.

Aramis’ mouth is hot and perfect around him and Porthos fists his hands in Aramis hair and curses. With one hand around Porthos’ cock and the other holding his balls, Aramis sucks at him, plays with him, teases him until Porthos sees stars and tugs him away. He needs this to last because if he comes before Aramis he’ll sober up from this fuck-drunk haze and start thinking about what a terrible idea it all is.

“Not yet. Let me.” He backs Aramis into the bedroom, yanking his shirt over his head and leaving their pants in the hallway. They’re both naked by the time they get to the bed, and Porthos stretches out along Aramis’ side to suck at his neck while he takes Aramis’ cock in his hand. “I barely need to touch for you to be ready, do I? How long have you been thinking about this?"

He squeezes and listens to Aramis hiss. “Fuck! All night, I told you! You can’t wear that suit and expect me to be able to pay attention to the damn salad."

Porthos laughs into the skin of Aramis’ throat. “All right then, show me what you’ve been thinking about."

Aramis growls and snatches Porthos’ hands. “Over on your front.”

When he’s got Porthos stretched out on the bed, Aramis covers the fingers of his right hand with lube and with his left hand he circles as much of Porthos’ neck as he can. He starts stretching Porthos and he never once stops talking.

“I walked into that office and you had that fucking suit on. Even without the jacket, probably _especially_ without the jacket, it just looked so good on you. I saw those sleeves rolled up your arms and I thought about how you use those arms to hold me down while you suck me.” He leans forward and bites at the back of Porthos’ neck, sliding his left hand down until he’s clutching Porthos’ forearm.

This is good, Porthos can handle this. It’s dirty and slick and hard and there’s no room for tenderness, so Porthos doesn’t have to worry about any weak spots for his feelings to slip through.

“But mostly, my Porthos, what I was thinking about was taking that damn tie off of you. I wanted to get it wrapped around your wrists and tie them to just this spot on my bed.” Holding him around the wrist, Aramis puts Porthos’ hand between two slats in his headboard.

_My_ Porthos. He heard it, and he knows Aramis didn’t mean anything by it, but it still rings in Porthos’ head.

“Tie’s in the front room, I think,” Porthos deflects, and grunts as Aramis twists the fingers inside him. Every time Aramis slides his fingers back into his ass, Porthos’ vision goes white for just a second.

“I don’t want to stop this for long enough to go and get it, but I don’t have to, do I? You can just keep your hands right here like I’ve got them tied so I can play out all the things I wanted to do to you all through dinner, can’t you?"

Porthos nods into the pillow, clutching at the headboard. They’ve done this a few times, trading off who’s in charge works best for them, but tonight he needs Aramis to be running the show. If he does what Aramis says, he can’t put a foot wrong, can’t give himself away.

“You ready?” Aramis asks and when Porthos nods, he says, “Stay where you are,” before fishing a condom from the nightstand. Porthos can hear him slicking it down over himself.

“Sometime this year, Aramis?” Porthos says and then laughs when Aramis’ hand cracks down over his right asscheek.

“Next time I have a tie fantasy, remind me to have more than one on hand so I can keep you quiet."

Porthos can feel his skin get tight at the thought of Aramis having him like that. _My Porthos._

“Next time you have a tie fantasy,” Porthos growls, "it’s going to be me lashing your wrists behind your back so I have a good handhold and some leverage while I fuck you."

“Ooh, clever. Not tonight, though. Tonight I feel the need to be right inside your amazing ass. Have I told you lately how much I love your ass?"

“It’s been hours, at least."

“It really is the finest ass I’ve ever seen. So perfect I really can’t stand to be outside it for one more second.” With one half of Porthos’ ass in each of his palms, Aramis spreads him open, thumbs pressing at his hole. “Yes, I need to be right there.”

With one hand Aramis guides the head of his cock in and Porthos stills, waiting for the rushing in his ears to stop. When it passes, along with the first pinch he’s grown accustomed to on nights when they just have to have it _right now_ , Porthos is left with the perfect, pulsing fullness of Aramis inside him.

He’s so damn glad to be face-down; god only knows what kind of look is on his face. Even when he isn’t feeling emotionally over-wrought, this moment is always amazing for him. Tonight he’s sure it shows more than usual, but on his belly like this he can put his face to the pillow and moan and no one needs to know that this time it’s wrecking him in a whole new way.

_My Porthos._

It hasn’t been long, barely a minute, when he feels Aramis’ fingers dig into his hips, feels him speeding up. They’re both groaning with each thrust and Porthos can’t keep from arching his back up into it. He also can’t keep from giving a tiny whine when Aramis suddenly stops for no reason.

“Turn over," Aramis says, breathless.

_Fuck._

It takes longer than it should for Porthos to pick his head up from the pillow and flip himself onto his back. He’s got to have that extra second to school his expression, to keep it from saying _I love how this gives me an excuse to touch you_  and _I missed you this week_  or _I’m starting to love when you smile at me._

On his back, looking up at Aramis, Porthos reaches for the slat in the headboard again, only to have Aramis grab his hands, fingers around his wrists. Porthos splays his legs wide and lets Aramis guide himself back in again, lets him push the blunt, hot head of his cock deep and fuck, it feels _so good_. Bending, Aramis kisses him, fucking his mouth and biting at his lips and growling against his lips and Porthos loves it. He loves it.

“Harder,” he demands, knowing that will help hold him in the moment. “More."

Sweat is making Aramis’ hands slick, making his grip on Portho’s wrists slip. Porthos clutches at him, not wanting to lose the contact. He tangles their fingers together and holds on, giving Aramis the leverage he needs to speed up, slapping his hips into Porthos even harder.

_My Porthos._

“Come on, show me how much you were thinking about my suit during dinner,” Porthos taunts, and Aramis fucks into him hard enough that they both grunt at the impact. Aramis does it again. Again. And Porthos never quite gets used to the fullness, never stops loving it.

Aramis squeezes his eyes closed and Porthos watches the tendons on his neck go taut. “Don’t hold back on my account,” he says and gasps as Aramis starts again, fast this time, if not so hard.

He’s staring, he knows he shouldn’t. He’s staring and thinking that in this moment he really is Aramis’ Porthos, held and fucked and kissed and it doesn’t matter why, just that this moment is here. He tells himself it doesn’t matter why. _Your Porthos. I could be yours and this is would feel the same. Maybe you would kiss me differently after, maybe you would say you were lucky to have me and mean it, but this moment would be the same. Your—_

In that second, Aramis opens his eyes and looks straight at him and Porthos, sure of what’s written on his face, flinches.

The best he can do is cover it with a grimace, screw his face up and groan and hope Aramis believes he’s just lost in how good it feels. It’s not far from the truth. Porthos pulls his hands free and grabs at Aramis’ shoulders, pulling him close, pulling him in, burying his face in Aramis’ neck.

He can make any face he likes, now. Aramis will never know what his expression is as he tilts his hips up and wraps his legs around Aramis’ waist and says, “C’mon. Now."

“Yeah,” Aramis moans. “Yeah, now. Fuck. Please. _Please_.”

Porthos doesn’t know what Aramis is asking for and from the stuttering, awkward rhythm of his hips, he’s sure Aramis doesn’t either. Before he can wonder any more at the words, Aramis fucks into him a handful of times more and then stills, tense against Porthos cheek, and comes. He can’t feel the twitch, can’t feel Aramis’ release, but he can hear how Aramis holds his breath and feel the jerk in his hips as he digs his toes into the sheets and drives himself just a little deeper.

“Damn.” Aramis says a second later, gasping through a laugh. “Damn, I always think I’m imagining how perfect your ass is but then I get inside it again.” He pulls back until he can see Porthos’ face and then grins at him. “But how uncouth of me, concerned only with my baser needs and neglecting you.”

_My Porthos._

Pulling out, Aramis slides down the bed and winks before taking Porthos in his mouth again and for a blissful minute and a half, Porthos doesn’t think of anything at all. He just holds on, riding the heat of Aramis’ tongue until he empties himself with a roar. There’s a perfect blankness in his mind in the moments after, he barely feels Aramis lick him clean or settle beside him. He only comes back to the moment when Aramis speaks again.

“Now, what have we learned about wearing suits around me?"

“It’s brilliant and I should do it more often?"

Aramis laughs and Porthos joins him and it’s light and wicked, and Porthos enjoys the little moment of familiarity, the comfortable humor. Wiping most of the fond smile from his face, he turns to Aramis.

“Now what?” he asks, and there are strata to the question, geologic layers, but only Porthos can see them.

“Now you give me fifteen minutes to recover feeling in my extremities, and I’ll drive you back to your car.” He reaches one hand over and absently pats at Porthos’ chest. Daring, Porthos takes Aramis’ hand and squeezes it before settling it back on Aramis’ own belly.

“Good plan, I like it.” He leans in for a kiss and Aramis apparently thinks nothing of it. He snakes his hand up around the back of Porthos’ neck and gives him a deep kiss, soft like they’d kissed at the picnic and movie night. Porthos can taste himself in Aramis’ mouth and Aramis knows it.

“Dirty,” Aramis says with a grin.

“’S why you love me,” Porthos says, getting up and heading for the bathroom before Aramis can see him wince at his own words and second-guess himself.

“One reason, certainly,” Aramis says, and almost before his eyes are closed, he’s asleep.

Porthos pisses, washes his hands, scrubs his face with cold water and stares at himself in the mirror. He could remind himself how it got easier tonight when they stopped pretending, and since now there’s no more pretending to do, it can only get easier again. He could tell himself that this is just some endocrine system hangover from mixing up great sex with someone who says nice things about you and makes you laugh. Or he could look himself in the eye and tell the truth — that his stupid, reckless heart, when given half a chance, went and fell for the only man who can’t love him back.

A wiser man would go home and not see Aramis again until the feelings have faded on their own, would never put himself in this situation again, but the only thing worse than the idea of spending time with Aramis and pretending not to care, is the idea of not having that time at all.

Tonight, though? Porthos knows that watching Aramis get dressed, keeping up idle chatter on the ride back to his car, then getting out and not kissing him goodnight, is more than he can handle. He pads back into the bedroom and tugs his trousers and undershirt on, collecting the rest of his clothes from around the house and slipping into his shoes. Grabbing a Taco Bell receipt from his pocket and a pen from Aramis’ dresser, he coils the tie up on Aramis’ nightstand and scribbles, “So you’re prepared next time,” on the paper before tucking it under the tie.

He closes the front door behind him, taking care to be quiet, and takes in huge lungfuls of the cool air to clear his head. It’s a mile and a half to his office, maybe two; at a decent pace, Porthos could be home in bed in an hour. With any luck, he might only spend half of that hour thinking about how spectacularly fucked he is.


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “She’s your grandmother, Aramis."
> 
> “Can you promise me she won’t spend two hours trying to fix me up with her mechanic’s granddaughter like she did at Easter?"
> 
> There’s a sigh and Aramis can almost see his mother pinching the bridge of her nose.

When Aramis wakes up, he's surprised to find Porthos gone. Surprised, but not entirely upset. He'd barely kept it together during the sex the night before; waking up next to Porthos, seeing his face in the morning, would have knocked him right back down again.

Before he can pull the pillow over his face, the phone rings. Aramis sees the incoming caller picture and smiles.

“Mama."

“I woke you,” his mother says.

“No, no I was awake."

“But not up yet."

“Mama, don’t. It’s Saturday. I don’t have to work. I can sleep past eight if I want."

“It’s eleven-thirty.” Her voice is perfectly flat, which means she’s trying not to laugh.

Aramis winces. “I’m getting up. I promise."

“I guess you had a good night?” Now she’s openly laughing at him, he can hear it.

He scrubs at his face with his palm and cracks his neck. “Dinner with the guys, nothing special, really.”  The corner of the mattress catches his eye, bare where Porthos had pulled the sheet loose as Aramis fucked him. “How was your Friday?"

“I spent three hours at lunch with Janine Tjan listening to her go on and on about Isabel’s wedding.” Aramis flinches at the name and feels his shoulders curl in.

“Tell me you took notes on all her ridiculous Bridezillaness so we can laugh at her later.”  He pulls a fresh pair of boxers from a drawer and pads into the bathroom.

“You know how Isabel is, everything is very dramatic."

He does. He spent two years in high school and his first semester of college dating her, learning everything about how she was and what she liked so he could make himself perfect for her. , Aramis runs water over his toothbrush and tries to crush the memory of how _Isabel_ spent those years: watching him disappear into her wants and not lifting a finger to stop him.

“If you want, Mom, you and I can sit in the corner during the reception and make a list of all the mistakes for Bianca to avoid when she marries Mark."

His mother huffs quietly. “I see why she invited you, because she never knew what you were like after, but I don’t see why you’re _going_."

“Mom. Mama. I’ve told you,” his voice is muffled by a mouth full of toothpaste, “I’m fine now. She’s a nice girl and I want her to be happy. And I get to spend an afternoon eating free food and dancing with my best friend."

“Porthos is coming?"

He spits in the sink. “No, Mama. You."

There’s a disbelieving scoff. “You’re terrible. I just remember,” she adds, her voice going low and soft. “I remember how you were."

“Yes, how I _was_. Not now. Not ever again. Because that’s what relationships do to me. I twist myself around to be perfect for them and I lose myself in the process. I don’t —.” He stops, relieved to have the running water as an excuse to be quiet a moment. “I don’t ever want to do that again,” he says finally. “Spending months trying to remember who _I_ am once I’m done being what someone else wants. So don’t worry, Mama. I’m not putting myself in that position again."

Because that’s it. That’s the thing. It would be so _easy_ to love the feeling he gets when Porthos takes his hand during dinner. Easier still to just enjoy how his heart squeezes when Porthos smiles at him while they're pretending. But he’d have so little time to savor those feelings before the joy would evaporate, before whatever kind of man his heart thinks Porthos wants to date swallows the man he really is.

His mother makes sympathetic noises. If she were in the room she’d be cupping his face and patting his cheeks. “Maybe someday you’ll take a chance again."

Maybe, but not now. Not with Porthos. This friendship, this man, is too important. You don't screw up your closest friendship because you want to test your limits. You don’t lose yourself in a man who doesn’t want you like that in the first place.

“You’re a good boy," she says when he doesn’t answer.

“Thanks, Mom."

“It _will_ be okay."

Aramis is standing in front of his closet, hunting for the right pair of jeans. He stops and rests his head against the closet door, sighing quietly. “I love you, Mama."

“Are you still coming to dinner tomorrow?"

“Why would I _not_ be coming to dinner?"

There’s a pause and Aramis heads for the kitchen while he tries to decide if his mother is conjuring up a lie, or just hesitating. Neither one is good.

“You haven’t talked to Catherine, then," is what she finally says.

Now Aramis is worried. He starts the coffee maker. If his mother doesn’t want to tell him and his sister doesn’t want to tell him then it’s something—Oh no.

“Mama."

“ _Mijo_ , I know—"

“She just gets started and she won’t _stop_ , Mama."

“She’s your grandmother, Aramis."

“Can you promise me she won’t spend two hours trying to fix me up with her mechanic’s granddaughter like she did at Easter?"

There’s a sigh and Aramis can almost see his mother pinching the bridge of her nose.

“Which is worse, _mijo_? That you come and have to deal with her meddling in your love life, or that you don’t come, and you and I _both_ have to deal with the fallout from that for years?"

Aramis makes a noise that he will swear to the grave is not a petulant whine.

“Just… bring Porthos if you want,” his mother says, as if that’s a brilliant solution . “Say he’s your boyfriend. Don’t make that noise, I know you played that game at his company party last week, you told me about it! He’ll go along, and it’ll get your _abuela_ off both our backs.” She pauses and when Aramis doesn’t answer she says, "Tell him I’ll make him whatever he wants for dessert. Or I could tell him. I _could_ just call him right now. You know I have his number.”  

Someday, Aramis will learn to stop letting his friends become friends with his mother, probably right after he learns to not tell her everything. “You know you’re a menace, Mama."

“I’m just trying to make this easier on both of us, and you know it,” she says, not bothering to hide the satisfaction in her voice. “Bring your fake boyfriend to Sunday dinner and buy us both a few months of peace before she starts asking when you two are going to adopt."

“If you want him there, _you_ call him,” he says, because it’s her scheme, she should have to do the work. Absolutely not because he needs a little more time to get himself back together before he talks to Porthos. Not that at all.

"I love you," she says. "I'll see you tomorrow." He sends his love as well, blowing her a kiss before saying goodbye and hanging up.

There. It’s out of his hands. Whatever happens now is officially not his fault. Excellent. Aramis pours himself some coffee and starts breakfast.

 

He’s in the middle of the grocery store (pasta, eggs, AAA batteries, strawberries if they aren’t too white) when his phone buzzes.

_I guess I’m coming to dinner tomorrow? Is your grandmother so scary you guys need me to protect you?_

_Don’t joke, she can hear you_

_Should I bring anything?_

_Just the fact that you’re coming is enough_

_We’re getting pretty good at this fake boyfriends thing_

Aramis sags, bends until his forehead is resting on the handlebar of the cart and takes a few deep breaths.

_We sure are_

After a second’s thought he adds a winky face emoji. It’s not much in the way of cover, but it’s better than having Porthos think he’s serious. A moment later Porthos sends the same wink back.

 

Realizing that Porthos has gotten to his mother’s house before him is the most terrifying thing that’s happened to Aramis all year. There’s no telling what his grandmother has gotten out of him by now. He sprints up the front walk and bursts through the door. “ _Hola_ , am I late?"

Porthos turns and smiles at him and Aramis can feel everything in him lurch forward in an effort to be closer to that smile. “Not at all, babe. You’re right on time, I’m just running early."  He comes across the room and cups Aramis’ face, kissing him softly.

“Breathe,” he whispers in Aramis’ ear. “We’ve got this."

Aramis’ grandmother is not what most people expect. They’re thinking they’ll meet a short, round, loud, matronly woman. The reality is always a shock. Sofia Ortiz is short, yes, but whip-thin and impeccably dressed and every word out of her mouth is a tactical strike. Aramis is just lucky she seems to be using her powers for good tonight.

“Come kiss your _abuelita_ , you terrible boy."

Aramis bends and kisses her cheek, hugging her until she wriggles and smacks at his arm. “Terrible boy,” she repeats, and turns to Porthos. “You see now, what you will have to put up with?"

Porthos grins at Aramis, then back at Sofia. “It’s a burden I’m willing to bear, ma’am."

Aramis’ sister Catherine arrives with her kids not long after and Aramis realizes he’s going to have to watch Porthos be adorable with small children for hours. As if either of them weren’t adorable enough on their own. This might be worse than having his grandmother spend those hours trying to fix him up.

He helps his mother finish getting dinner ready while Porthos shows Aramis’ eldest niece how to set the table.

“Ally, watch carefully, you have to put the spoon _under_ the plate, near the top. That way the food slides down toward you and you don’t have to reach so far. It’s really—"

“Porthos!"

He looks up at Aramis’ grandmother and smiles. “What?"

She stares at him. That look kept Aramis’ late grandfather in line for more than forty years, to say nothing of the children and grandchildren—and now great-grandchildren—and dozens of her employees over the years. No one, not even Porthos, is immune to that look.

By the time they sit down, Porthos and Aramis next to each other with Ally and her younger sister Liana opposite them, the table is perfectly set, no sign of mischief. It’s quiet for a few minutes while the food is passed around, and Aramis dares to think this might be a peaceful meal.

“Now, Porthos. Tell me about yourself,” Sofia says, and Aramis groans.

“ _Abuela_!"

“No, no. Q _ue te calles_.” She shakes a crimson-tipped finger at him. “You spend seven years not so much as mentioning a date and then you bring your _boyfriend_ to Sunday dinner? I must find out what makes this man so extraordinary that you’ve kept him secret so long."

Aramis swallows, and his throat is tight. He wants to tell her that yes, Porthos is extraordinary. He wants to talk about the way Porthos makes his boring job fun or the way he never gets tired of Aramis’ disgusting veterinary stories. The way Porthos always finds something to laugh about, even when things are terrible, even when they were stuck in traffic for four hours last year on the way to the beach. Porthos had just rolled the windows down and sang loud enough that nearby drivers started making requests. He uses his strength so carefully, always, and Aramis knows he never stops thinking, can see his brain working even when he’s spread out, wanton in bed. But that’s not what Sofia wants to talk about.

“You want to know what I do. School. Like that?"

“To start.” She’s got eyes like lasers, and Aramis can see Porthos pulling back a little under the force of them.

“I’m an accountant. Certified. It’s not glamorous but I love my company and the people I work with. I’m from here, but I went to school in Pennsylvania-- Penn State."

“That’s a long way to go."

Porthos shrugs and nods. “It is, but it’s a good school and I had a football scholarship. They were the best school to offer me the kind of money I needed. It was just me and my dad, and on a school teacher’s salary he could never have sent me to a school like that without a lot of loans."

“Only the two of you?” Sofia asks, cutting her ham into precise pieces.

“My parents, my biological parents, passed away when I was just a baby. Dad was my father’s best friend, the emergency guardian no one ever thinks they’ll need. I never knew anyone but him and he’s been the best parent I could dream of."

He has the most amazing smile on his face and Aramis can’t keep his hand still. He reaches over and curls his fingers over Porthos’ wrist. Porthos turns his hand palm-up and laces their fingers together. This bit of the story is new to Aramis. He knew Porthos was adopted but hadn’t ever heard the story behind it.

Sofia cocks one eyebrow. “So your father is both single and a good man. I see."

“Mama!"

She turns to Aramis’ mother. “It couldn’t hurt to ask, Julia."

Porthos laughs. “I’m all for it. You guys might hit it off, and everyone deserves to be as happy as we are.” He turns that smile on Aramis and Aramis hears a rushing in his ears. He wonders if Porthos wants him to smile back, if Porthos wants him to— No. He won’t do this. _He_ wants to smile back, so he does.

Catherine smiles at them in a way that says Aramis’ mom has not let her in on the joke. Aramis smiles back and hopes she won’t be too angry to have missed out on the subtext.

“Good job, smart boy, and you love this one?” She waves her fork in Aramis’ direction.

“I do. We don’t say it a lot but I think he knows.”  

That is a lie. They say it all the time, but never in the way she means.

“Young man, if you feel it, you should say it. Frequency does not cheapen the feeling, and you never know if you will have the chance to say it again.”  She stares at them. She’s waiting.

Porthos turns to him; Sofia can still see him from this angle. Whatever he’s feeling, he keeps it off his face. “I love you. You know that."

Aramis puts his other hand over where theirs are already joined on the table. “I know. I love you, too.” 

They have said these words for years, in more contexts than they can remember. Porthos says, “Oh, I love you,” when Aramis has his coffee waiting when Porthos gets to the cafe. Aramis says, “This is why I love you,” when Porthos drives him around while Aramis’ car is in the shop. They say it all the time, but this time is different.

This is the first time it’s felt like a _lie_. Aramis tries to convince himself that it isn’t, that she doesn’t have to know _how_ they meant it. He knows they do still love each other in all the ways that they always have, but it still feels like ashes in his mouth.

“Mmm,” Sofia says. She seems to be satisfied for the moment an turns her attention to Catherine and the girls, wanting details about school and work. Aramis turns to Porthos, leaning in close and wanting to whisper apologies in his ear.

Before he can say anything, Porthos says, “Shhh, it’s fine,” and then lets go of his hand, stretching his arm across the back of Aramis’ chair and playing with the hair at the nape of Aramis’ neck. When Sofia sees it, she smiles. Aramis wants to sink into how good it feels. Instead, he leans forward, reaching for the bread basket and shooting a smile at Ally.

Eventually the conversation comes back around to the two of them and Aramis braces himself.

“Porthos,” Julia says. “Would you like to hear some of my favorite stories from Aramis’ childhood?"

Aramis groans and drops his face into his hands. Porthos just laughs.

“You know, ma’am, I would."

Four stories later, including the one about the time he built a lemonade stand with 2x12s and masking tape, the girls ask to be excused. Catherine tucks them in on the living room sofa with a movie before coming back and sharing the story about Aramis getting his head stuck in his locker in seventh grade.

Wine has loosened Aramis’ tongue so he shoots back with the story of Catherine’s first driving lesson. It’s the most Aramis has seen his grandmother laugh in years. Julia opens another bottle of wine and both Aramis and Porthos accept a refill. By the time they look up at the clock, the second bottle is empty and the girls are asleep on the couch.

“I have to get them home,” Catherine says, kissing Aramis on the head and hugging Porthos. “It was so nice to meet you. Come see us again? Soon?” 

“Wouldn’t miss it.” He pats her arm where it’s wrapped around his shoulders.

While the women are saying goodbye, Aramis and Porthos clear the table. With everyone helping, cleanup is fast, even with all the time Aramis spends staring at Porthos’ hands.

“Time for us to head out as well, I think,” Aramis says.

Sofia frowns. “No. I saw how much wine you had, you can sleep here. Your mother will get you up early enough to get home and change for work in the morning."

“Really, Sofia, that’s not necessary,” Porthos says. “We’re both fine."

“Are you going to argue with an old woman?” she asks and Porthos backpedals.

“I wouldn’t—I’m not arguing—"

“To bed with you both,” she says. “Julia and I will finish the cleaning."

“Is it worth trying to fight?” Porthos asks him, sotto voce, and Aramis shakes his head. Porthos sighs. “Okay, show me where we’re going, then."

 

The bed in the guest room is a double. Porthos stares at it, his face blank, and Aramis knows he’s probably wondering how they went from never spending the night together to sleeping next to each other in this tiny bed.

“Good thing we like each other, eh?” Porthos asks. He’s smiling and Aramis loves how nothing ever fazes him.

Aramis laughs. “Not much room to retreat to our corners, no.”  He tugs off his socks and jeans. “Thanks for tonight, by the way. You made this nicer than our family dinners have been for years. And even if she never sees you again, you bought me about a year and a half of peace before she starts trying to fix me up with the butcher’s niece again."

“All the freedom and none of the badgering,” Porthos says and something about his smile seems off. Aramis wonders if he’s upset about lying to family like this. He smiles back and strips his shirt off over his head, watching Porthos’ eyes fix on him.

“No sex in my mother’s house,” Aramis says, putting a hand up

Porthos waggles his eyebrows. “Lots of room for interpretation there."

“My grandmother thinks you’re a nice boy."

“You know better."

“I do.”  Aramis grins. “It’s one of the reasons I—,” This is where they would say ‘I love you,’ but after tonight, after making it a lie, Aramis takes half a heartbeat, barely a pause, before he finishes, “keep you around.” 

“Thought it was my ass."

“While your ass is spectacular, my Porthos, it would be nothing without the rest of you.”

Porthos’ answering smile is a little tight.

Down to their boxers and snug under the duvet, Aramis murmurs, “Lots of room for interpretation, you say?"

Porthos’ laugh is a rumble in his chest and Aramis feels it against his skin, but there’s still something tense in his eyes. Aramis wants nothing more than to make it go away. It’s awkward, in this small bed in his mother’s house, knowing how noises carry, but great sex is what makes their relationship work. He darts forward and kisses Porthos, sucking at his lower lip. Aramis can feel Porthos’ hands slide around to lay against back, hot and broad, clutching him tight.

He hasn’t spent three years sleeping with Porthos without learning the best spots to touch. Sucking at Porthos’ throat, Aramis can feel him groan and arch his neck. “’S good, Aramis. Don’t stop."

Aramis smiles and runs his hand down Porthos’ arm, over his hip and around to his ass. He tugs Porthos closer and feels where Porthos’ cock is growing fat and hard.

With a groan, Porthos buries his hands in Aramis’ hair and pulls his head back for a kiss. As it goes on, it’s both old and new, dirty and soft. It’s how they kissed before this all started and how they kiss when people are watching. It’s perfect. Aramis gives as good as he gets, rolling his body against Porthos’ and digging his fingers into Porthos’ ass. Even through their boxers, the friction of their erections against each other is perfect.

He can feel Porthos’ arms around him, holding Aramis tight to his body, keeping Aramis from moving, rocking, rutting against him. Porthos is running the show now and Aramis can feel the hairs on his arms stand on end. There’s more kissing, there’s so much more kissing, and after a while, Porthos even begins to move again. He’s grinding against Aramis achingly slowly, digging his toes into the tops of Aramis’ feet for leverage and grunting into his neck. Aramis just holds on and kisses his head, his face, wherever he can reach.

Porthos is muttering against Aramis’ skin about how good it feels, how perfect. And god, it does. It feels _so good._ Aramis can feel where his own boxers are wet against the tip of his cock and tries to curl his hips against Porthos’, craving that hardness against his own. When Porthos pulls back, drags his hands down Aramis’ chest, Aramis can see his face. The tightness around his eyes is gone. He’s smiling, open and happy and Aramis thinks, ‘I did that.’ In the next breath he goes cold all over.

He did that. He wanted Porthos to have a real smile again and so Aramis did whatever he needed to in order to make it happen. It wasn’t a chore, it never is with Porthos. There’s no hardship in kissing this beautiful man and feeling their bodies move together, but Aramis knows this is the first step on a steep and slippery downhill slide. He thinks back to what he’d said to his mother earlier, about how easy it is for him to lose himself to another’s wants and knows he needs to stop now before he’s any further gone.

There must be something on his face because Porthos isn’t moving anymore.

“We gotta stop,” Porthos says.

Aramis tries to keep his voice light, he even throws in a little laugh. “Believe me, as much fun as I’m having, and as much as I enjoy my sinning, I am far too Catholic to have sex under my mother’s roof.”

It’s as good an excuse as any other, and far easier than pulling himself back together after the kind of sex they might have tonight. He would be wrapped up in Porthos so quickly and who knows how long it would take to recover.

Porthos chuckles. His smile is a little too bright, a little too easy, and Aramis knows it’s because he’s disappointed. Aramis will make it up to him— No. He’s doing it again. He darts forward and kisses Porthos, hard and quick. “I’ll set an alarm for just after 1, we can get up and out of here while they’re sleeping and spend the night in our own beds."

“Good plan.”  Porthos goes to pat him on the shoulder, but they both freeze at the sound of Sofia and Julia coming up the stairs. Aramis quickly shuts the light off and they go still under the duvet.

The footsteps stop just outside and in the second before the door opens, Porthos flings his arm around Aramis’ waist. Good call. They’re meant to be dating, in love. The door inches open until there’s a narrow beam of light from the hallway falling on them.

“They’re good boys,” Sofia whispers.

“They are,” Julia says. “I’ve worried about Aramis. It takes someone special to love him as much as he deserves."

“This one is special. I can see it in his eyes."

It’s quiet for a minute and Aramis almost looks to see if they’ve gone when he hears his grandmother’s voice again.

“This one sees him. Many people look at Aramis, but this one sees him."

“They see each other, I think. All the way through. It’s on their faces when they think no one is looking." Aramis tries not to flinch, frantically going through the evening in his head and trying to find where he might have given himself away.

Sofia sighs. “I push, I know, but I want my family to be happy.” The voices are moving away now. When Aramis’ mom speaks again it’s clear they’re heading back down the stairs.

“I’m just worried that with Aramis fixed up, you’re going to turn back to me. Come on, I’ll walk you out.”  Any words after that are too muffled and distant to understand.

Porthos pulls his arm free and rolls over. They’re curled up with their backs to one another, not touching anywhere. Aramis stares at the wall and thinks about how wrong his mother is. Because if Porthos could see all the way through him, if Porthos could see him even a little, Aramis would be alone in this bed.

 

His first thought on waking is that his mother must have left the hall light on, because the room is way too bright. His second thought is that he couldn’t be touching Porthos more closely if they were fucking. Somehow they’ve gravitated toward one another and now Porthos is spooned up behind him, his feet tucked under Aramis'. Porthos skin is always so warm and pressed against him like this it’s amazing. Their hands are joined and curled against Aramis’ chest and he can feel Porthos’ breath against his skin. His face must be buried in Aramis’ neck for the warm air passing over that particular spot. It feels… perfect.

It’s solid and safe and the smell of Porthos is warm in his nose and he never wants to move, which is exactly why he has to. Opening his eyes, Aramis can see that the brightness is from the sunrise coming through the window.

“Fuck!” He jerks loose from Porthos’ grasp and grabs for his phone. There’s a confused grunt from behind him.

“What happened?"

“I forgot to set the alarm, it’s just after 5:30. I’m so sorry."

“It’s fine, Aramis.” He pats absently at Aramis’ shoulder. “I don’t have to be at work until after eight. It’s fine.”  Rolling over, Porthos swings his legs out of bed and stands up. Aramis tries not to think about how cold he feels without Porthos against him. They dress quickly and sneak downstairs as quietly as they can. Aramis scribbles a quick note for his mom before they head out the door.

Porthos is standing next to his car, fishing his keys out of his pocket. He’s squinting in the sunlight and probably at least half asleep still. The fact that he’s still gorgeous even rumpled and with pillow creases on his cheeks is one of the reasons Aramis hasn’t been able to keep his hands off Porthos for the last three years.

“Buy you breakfast?” Aramis asks, walking over to stand next to him. Porthos did him an enormous favor, breakfast is the least he can do.

Porthos scrubs his hand through his hair and opens his car door. He kisses Aramis, light and fast, then smiles. His smile is tight again, and exhausted. “I’m too tired. Go home, Aramis."

Aramis nods, best to get home and get ready for work. “See you at D and Athos’ for dinner, then.”  Porthos doesn’t say anything, he just closes his door. Aramis watches as Porthos raises a hand in a wave as he drives away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should send my husband and child to Ohio more often, I get tons of writing done.


	5. Chapter 5

The beat is pooling low in his belly and Aramis remembers that _this_ is why he used to go clubbing so much. Before he had to get up early and be responsible every day, this was how he spent so many nights. They’d had to cancel dinner at Athos and d’Artagnan’s this week, something about a huge filing due on one of Athos’ cases, so Aramis wasn’t expecting to see any of them until next week. D’Artagnan’s invitation to go dancing the next night was a nice surprise.

“Thank you for coming!” d’Artagnan shouts into his ear.

“You finished your first semester of teaching!” Aramis yells back. “That deserves a celebration night!"

“What?” 

Aramis laughs. They should know better; they always try to have conversations on the dance floor and it always ends like this.

“Come on!” He drags d’Artagnan off the floor and up the stairs to the back bar. It’s quieter there, at least enough to be heard without screaming.

“I said,” Aramis waves at the bartender and mouths ‘water’, then holds up two fingers. “That you finished your first semester of being a boring grown up, and that deserves a celebration to remind you how young you still are.”  He grins and takes the water from the bartender.  “Or at least how young you wish you were."

D’Artagnan laughs and takes a bottle of water, rolling it over the back of his neck. 

“It’s nice like this,” he says. “Just us."

“Are you having flashbacks to when you were a single young twink and I was the belle of the ball?  Or are you secretly wishing your better half were here?"

D’Artagnan opens his water and puts on a show for the strangers around the bar, leaning his head back so it’s easy to watch the long column of his throat as he drinks.  Aramis shakes his head and rolls his eyes.  

“On second thought, it’s probably for the best that it’s just us. Athos would mock you mercilessly for that display. And Porthos would have laughed right out loud."

D’Artagnan grins. “Yeah, I guess I should be glad neither of them made it, though Athos would if he could. It’s that same filing for his big case. It’s due at the end of the week and he’s staying late again to make sure everything is ready."

Aramis crumples his empty bottle and frowns. “I thought he and Porthos were somewhere together. If Athos is working, where is Porthos?"

“Being old,” d’Artagnan says. When Aramis looks confused, d’Artagnan laughs. “He had a date last night and says he’s staying in tonight to recover."

Aramis ignores the rushing in his ears. “What is there to recover from?"

D’Artagnan shrugs. “Apparently Todd wore him out."

“Who the fuck is Todd?"

D’Artagnan’s eyes widen at Aramis’ tone.“How the hell should I know?  Porthos just said they’d had a late night and he wasn’t up for two in a row."

Aramis’ brain is spinning.  It must be the guy from sales, Porthos would have told Aramis about anyone else he was scoping out. Wouldn’t he?  This is good, though. This is what they’ve needed, to get out of each other’s pockets and enjoy the benefits of not being tied to anyone, not even best friends.   Aramis grins.

“I think it’s a guy he works with,” he tells d’Artagnan, "and that’s good. Porthos has been hoping to hook this fish for weeks now.  I only hope there isn’t any fuss when he cuts the poor fellow loose."

D’Artagnan stares at him. “I’m sure Porthos will set him straight. You’re not upset?"

“Well, I wish he could have been here to watch you try to remember how to dance.”  There’s silence from d’Artagnan. “Oh, about Todd you mean? No, not a bit!” He pats d’Artagnan’s arm. "That’s not how things are."

“Just friends, yeah? That’s what Porthos said."

Aramis hopes his smile reaches his eyes. “Exactly.” He claps his hands on d’Artagnan’s shoulders. “And now we have to have a good enough time to make up for our underperforming friends!”  He points to the bar. “I shall return."

There must have been a shift change while they were talking because the bartender who meets Aramis’ eyes is a new face, and a gorgeous one. He cocks one eyebrow and looks over every visible inch of Aramis “What can I get you, Trouble?"

Aramis smiles and rests his elbows on the bar. The bartender is tall, intimidatingly broad through the shoulders, and Aramis wants to run his hands over the man’s shaved head. “Does my reputation precede me, or can you just tell from my face?"

He grins back at Aramis and runs a towel around the neck of a pint glass; his smile is bright against his dark skin and his eyes are liquid and black. “My experience? Anyone as pretty as you is usually trouble."

Aramis raises one finger. “I think you’ll find that no one is as pretty as me."

“But you do agree that you’re probably trouble.” The bartender’s voice is a deep bass rumble, and it’s doing dangerous things to Aramis’ bones.

“I’m _definitely_ trouble.” Aramis raises his eyebrows in a dare. 

“So I’ll say again, what can I get you, Trouble?"

“Two Stellas and your name?"

Aramis watches the bartender’s shoulders bunch and move under his tight black t-shirt as he roots through the cooler for the beers. He sets them on the bar and smiles. “That’s ten bucks, and I’m Mike."

Aramis puts the money on the bar next to the bottles but before he can draw his hand away, Mike has his fingers covering Aramis’.  

“Should I just keep calling you Trouble?"

“It would be awkward to shout that, wouldn’t it?” He turns his hand until it’s palm up. “I’m Aramis."

Mike grips his hand and shakes it as well as he can, given the angle. He nods at a few people who have wandered up to the bar in the midst of this exchange. “Be right with you,” he says before turning back to Aramis. "You gonna be around for a while?”

“I might be. Unless I get a better offer."

Mike’s eyebrow goes up again. “Oh we’re not beating around the bush at all, are we?” Aramis shrugs one shoulder. “Tell you what, you stick around and I’ll try to make it worth your while.” 

“I could get behind that,” Aramis says.

Mike winks and just before he turns to help the other customers he says, “Usually I do that part."

Aramis laughs and takes the beer bottles; when he turns back d’Artagnan is staring at him.

“What?"

“I didn’t say a word.” 

There’s something in his voice that to Aramis’ ear sounds a lot like disappointment, which is ridiculous. Aramis is in his element: a gorgeous man is flirting with him and he’s flirting back. The only thing that’s missing is Porthos shooting him a thumbs-up from across the room, and then getting all the salacious details over breakfast the next morning. Never mind that Aramis can’t actually remember the last time he felt the urge to hook up with anyone _but_ Porthos. Why bother, when Aramis knows that not only can Porthos drive his body mad, he won’t get pissy when Aramis wants to go for coffee after instead of cuddling?

“Finish that,” Aramis says, pointing at d’Artagnan’s beer bottle with his own. “I want to get back out there."

D’Artagnan tosses back a huge swallow, and shakes his head. “Why do you need me for that?"

“Honestly, d’Artagnan, have I taught you nothing? I’ll get much better prospects if they see me with someone else.”  When d’Artagnan rolls his eyes, Aramis says, “It’s not my fault that people are terrible, I’m just using it to my advantage."

 

By the time they need another break, Aramis’ shirt is plastered to him front and back, and d’Artagnan’s hair is out of its elastic and sticking to his neck. Aramis flicks a strand of it against d’Artagnan’s face. He almost looks over his shoulder to see if Porthos caught that before he stops himself. 

“Water!” d’Artagnan shouts and Aramis points to the back bar again; when D’Artagnan nods, they head upstairs.  Aramis sidles up to the bar and grins at Mike. 

“Aramis. Nice to see you haven’t run off."

“Can I get a couple of waters?” He props his elbows on the bar and leans forward. "And why would I run off? I was told there might be a better offer if I stuck around.” 

Mike passes him the water and smirks. Aramis salutes him with one of the bottles, and walks back to hand it to d’Artagnan.

“Having fun?” d’Artagnan asks.

Aramis frowns at him. “Of course. Good music, hot men hitting on me, I get to hang out with you…” He knocks the neck of his water bottle against d’Artagnan’s in a crude toast. “Why do you ask?"

D’Artagnan looks back at Mike, then at Aramis again. “I just thought you might be wishing Porthos were here."

He is, truth be told. He’s missing being able to lean over, say one word, and have Porthos know everything he means by it and all the jokes that come after. The way Porthos feels at his back while they’re dancing, or how he always shakes the condensation off his water so that it hits d’Artagnan in the face. All those things are running through Aramis’ mind and yes, okay, yes, he misses Porthos being here. He misses Porthos.

Which is exactly why he needs this night.

“Sure, it’s more fun when he’s around, I like having a partner to help pick on you, but this is one of my favorite ways to spend an evening. I’m having a great time.” Aramis sees Mike smiling at him, catches the barest hint of a dimple and then the penny drops. He rolls his eyes at d’Artagnan. “Oh, come on. Don’t tell me you think I’m flirting with him because he looks a little like Porthos."

D’Artagnan shrugs.

Aramis stares at Mike and thinks that anyone assuming he was a substitute for Porthos had clearly never spent any time looking at Porthos’ eyes when he smiled, at how the lines spread out and the grin would take over his entire face. And Aramis’ has spent too much time with his fingers buried in them to think Mike’s smooth head would ever be mistaken for Porthos’ curls.

He’s about to explain this to d’Artagnan, perhaps unwisely, when he sees Mike wave him over.

“Does your boyfriend share?” Mike asks when Aramis walks up to the bar.

Aramis laughs. “Oh no, just a friend. A very taken friend, at that. I don’t do boyfriends."

“I hear that,” Mike says with a nod.

“I don’t have the kind of time to spend making somebody learn to love someone I’m pretending to be."

Now it’s Mike’s turn to laugh. “I could not have put it better.”  He swabs at the bar and checks his watch. “So, if you’re not up for anything involved and I’m not up for anything involved…” He lets the sentence trail off as he looks up at Aramis.

“It sounds like we could have some mutual not-involved fun. I told you I could get behind that."

“And _I_ told _you_ , the getting behind is usually my job."

Aramis’ pulse starts thumping in his neck; he loves this part, the negotiation, the air thick and ripe with promise. “In that case, I could be receptive to your offer."

Mike wads the bar rag up and tosses it into a bin in the corner. “Cards on the table time. You wanna have some fun tonight?”

Aramis nods, his grin sly.

“I’m on break in fifteen, can you be ready by then?”  

Aramis hasn’t been fucked in a while, but he’s sure the fundamentals haven’t changed. “I can if you can. Out back?"

Mike drags his teeth over his lower lip and gives Aramis a look of frank appraisal. “You got lube?”  

Aramis pats his pockets like an old man looking for his watch and shrugs. Mike tosses two sample-sized packets of Wet! across the bar at him. Catching them in his right hand, Aramis can feel the moment become suddenly, perfectly real. The edge of one foil packet is digging into his palm and the music is pounding in his ears and for half a second he wants to turn and high-five Porthos.

They’ve always agreed that this is what they each enjoy most about their lives, this kind of freedom. _Because nothing says freedom like fucking near-strangers in an alley, right?_ says a voice inside him, and Aramis physically shakes it off. He stuffs the packets in his pocket with a final nod at Mike, and walks over to join d’Artagnan at the railing overlooking the main dance floor. 

“See anything I might like?"

D’Artagnan laughs. “You seem to be doing just fine finding things on your own."

Aramis inclines his head and gestures as if to say ‘what can you do, eh?’ He nudges d’Artagnan with his elbow. “On that subject, if you don’t see me for a few minutes…"

Shaking his head, d’Artagnan says, “You’re leaving me for a hook-up. Now it really is like old times.” He turns to look squarely at Aramis. “You managed to get Porthos with one of these random run-ins. You don’t want to quit while you’re ahead?"

“We can’t all have your wisdom, d’Artagnan.” Aramis pats him on the shoulder and heads for the bathroom.

 

Five minutes later the reality of his situation hits him like a slap. Aramis is in the middle stall, door closed, with his jeans down around his knees and two slicked-up fingers in his ass. This is how his night is going to go.

It’s going to be fun sex with a hot guy and he loves that, always has. It’ll be worth this momentary loss of dignity. He keeps trying to think of all the nights he and Porthos went out and picked up guys like this, but the reality—and he knows this now that he thinks about it—is that most nights like those? He went home with Porthos. When they were out together, no one else seemed worth the effort.

The problem is that at some point while they were pretending to be in love, things started adding up. They’d hold hands when people were watching and not let go right away. They’d kiss sweetly for the benefit of an audience but keep kissing that way when they were alone. One tiny rock on top of another and now there’s a mountain. As loath as Aramis is to admit it, the last time he and Porthos fucked it was very definitely boyfriend sex. The only thing worse than that realization for Aramis is knowing just how much he’d enjoyed it. It had been better than good; it had been probably the best sex of his life.

No. Porthos doesn’t do ‘boyfriends’ and he doesn’t do ‘boyfriend sex’, and if Aramis doesn’t want to lose him as either a friend or a fuck, he needs to get a handle on this. He’s been able to stop trying twist himself to be what he thinks Porthos might want, giving up the boyfriend part of the sex should be… It’s going to be nearly impossible. So the easiest way to do it is just to stop sleeping with Porthos. At least for now.

The hand that isn’t twisting inside him is braced against the wall of the stall, and Aramis drops his forehead to the back of that wrist and sighs. He’s going to stop sleeping with Porthos and he’s going to get back to the kind of sex he’s good at, the kind that doesn’t make him spend the next day wondering if he’s gone too far or let something slip. He wanted a life without romance, and here it is. This is the next step in getting his equilibrium back.

 

The cinderblock under his hands is rougher than Aramis expected when he put his palms there to brace himself. It’s digging into his skin and it’s harsh enough that he can feel it even over the repeated slapping of Mike’s hips into his ass. Mike is big, bigger than the last real cock Aramis had in his ass for sure, but not as big as his favorite toys, so the stretch is still on the good side of too much. 

They’d met out here just a few minutes ago, and Mike had spun Aramis to face the wall, jerking his jeans down without ceremony. He’d chuckled to note that Aramis had already unbuttoned them for him. He dragged his fingers through the lube and said, “Good, you got yourself nice and ready,” and Aramis knew his shiver was as much for the sound of a husky voice in his ear as for how much that voice sounded like another one.

Now Mike has one hand wrapped over Aramis’s shoulder and the other gripping his hip, and he’s fucking Aramis fast and without finesse. He’s fucking exactly like someone with seven minutes left on his break.

Aramis is trying to sink into it, to lose himself in the sheer physical pleasure of it.  He’s close, but the pain in his palms is too distracting. “Can you move me a little to the right? This wall is killing my hands,” Aramis says.  Mike grips him by both hips, and together they shuffle three feet to the right until Aramis can reach out and brace on the back door.  “Better,” he says. “Keep going."

Yes, there it is. There’s the fantastic drag and pull and overwhelming fullness. His brain and heart have checked out, only his nerves and body are responding now, and they are loving this. Mike’s fingers are tight around his hip and somehow instead of his pace being too fast, it’s perfectly relentless. The sensation seems like it’s never-ending, and it builds more and more in Aramis until he worries it’s going to crash over him. That’s when Mike starts talking.

“I’ve been watching you for hours, hoping I’d be able to get my hands on this firm little ass.” He palms Aramis’ right cheek and squeezes it. “It’s better than I was imagining. Even better with my dick inside you. Goddamn, you are so tight around me. Is it too much?"

Aramis shakes his head. “Not at all, it’s good.” Mike snaps his hips and Aramis gasps, then adds, “It’s _really_ good."

Mike laughs and Aramis can feel it rumbling against him. “I’m glad, because you’re sure making me feel good.”  He curls himself over Aramis’ back. “I bet I can make you feel even better.”  

The sudden heat of Mike’s hand around his erection startles another gasp out of Aramis and he cants his hips back to meet the next thrust.  Everything is lost now, the coolness where the night air touches the wetness on his cock, the heat of the metal door under his hands, the sweat dripping down the back of his right knee. All Aramis knows is the rushing in his ears and the pain of his own hoarse cries as his climax unspools within him.

“Yeah,” Mike says. “Yeah, with me,” and he snaps his hips a half dozen more times before groaning and tightening his hand around Aramis as he comes. Aramis cries out and feels his own orgasm pulse in Mike’s hand.

Mike’s chest is hot against Aramis’ back but he stays curled over until he gets his breathing under control. “Shit,” he says, laughing.

“Yeah,” Aramis says with his own laugh. “Me too.”  

He hisses as Mike stands and pulls out. While Mike is tying the condom in a knot and tossing it into the nearby dumpster, Aramis is tugging his jeans up, buttoning and zipping them and noticing, with that strange attention to detail that sometimes comes in moments like these, that instead of coming all down the front of his own jeans, Aramis seems to have hit the door in front of him.

Aramis turns and smiles at Mike over his shoulder. “Thanks,” he says.

Mike grins back. “My pleasure. Really.” 

Opening the door for them, Mike laughs when he sees Aramis’ come shot. “Nice. Let me know if you’re up for a rematch sometime.” Aramis is about to say he doesn’t usually do seconds, and it must show on his face because Mike adds, “Man, relax, neither one of us does romance. We covered that."

With a last glance around the alley, Aramis wonders what kind of men Mike has run into that he needs to give that kind of warning, because this is the least romantic thing Aramis has ever done.

 

He’s checking his wallet to see if he’s got cab fare or if he’s going to have to hit an ATM when he sees that d’Artagnan has actually stayed.

“Now this is _not_ like old times,” Aramis says. “Back then you’d have left me here to prove a point."

D’Artagnan shrugs. “Back then I didn’t know any better. You are who you are.” He points down at the dance floor. “Besides, you needed to see this."

Following d’Artagnan’s finger, Aramis sees a kid in the middle of the dance floor. He’s eighteen at most and he’s dancing with a singular abandon. There’s sweat plastering his hair to his face and his shirt is stuffed in his back pocket. His expression is transcendent.

Aramis can’t help but smile. “First night, you think?"

D’Artagnan nods. “I had that same look on my face the first time I went out somewhere I fit in."

Clapping d’Artagnan on the shoulder and dragging him close, Aramis says, “I did too.”  He shakes d’Artagnan’s shoulder a little. “Come on, let’s leave the young people to their debauchery. It’s unfair of us to be the most beautiful people here _all_ night."

“This was fun,” d’Artagnan says as they stumble out into the street.

“It was."

“Let’s go back to my place and watch bad movies until we fall asleep on the couch, and see if Athos will cook us breakfast."

“Don’t tell Athos, but I’ve always liked you best."

D’Artagnan snorts.

 

Athos does make breakfast, and with only token grumbling. He’s clearly happy to be home from work and have the worst of the deadlines off his shoulders. He makes a skillet of eggs and potatoes and serves them with fresh homemade tortillas and salsa that Aramis knows he buys at a farmers’ market during the summer and hoards the rest of the year. This is what love looks like from Athos.

“So,” Athos asks when he joins them at the table. “Do I want to know what kind of trouble you two caused last night?"

Aramis looks innocent. He chews and washes his eggs down with coffee. “I will have you know that we were perfectly behaved."

D’Artagnan tries to laugh around his breakfast taco and chokes, coughing a hunk of potato onto his plate. When Athos has finished fussing, d’Artagnan says, “One of us was well-behaved. The other one fucked the bouncer against the wall in the alley."

Rolling his eyes, Aramis takes another bite and suffers Athos’ cocked eyebrow until he finishes chewing and swallows. “Lies. All lies.”  Athos rolls his eyes, and Aramis smiles. “He was the upstairs bartender, and we fucked against the back door. The wall was too rough to brace against without cutting my hands."

They both laugh. Athos’ is a quiet huff but d’Artagnan reaches a hand out and shoves at Aramis’ shoulder. “You must really like that door."

Aramis frowns. “I don’t follow."

Shoveling eggs into another tortilla, d’Artagnan looks at him. “Isn’t that the same door you fucked Porthos against the first night you met?"

“Well,” Aramis says, throwing on his brightest smile like a mask, “so it was. That door owes me a thank-you card. It’s seen me at my best twice now.”  He’s glad when they both roll their eyes and Athos starts talking about work, leaving Aramis to his thoughts. 

D’Artagnan is right, that’s the same spot where he and Porthos had ended up after making out against the other side of the door for long enough that they’d drawn an audience.  Porthos had growled in his ear, something about not wanting anyone else to watch _this time_ , and popped the door open. 

Even with all his rules, Aramis hadn’t even blinked when Porthos had said ‘this time’, just like he hadn’t blinked when Porthos had gripped their erections together in one spit-slick hand and stroked them, saying, “We can fuck proper later, when we’ve got more time.” All these years Aramis has assumed that his comfort with their arrangement has been the mutual agreement that it goes no further than sex and friendship, but he’d flinched just a little when Mike had suggested a rematch, even though Aramis knew Mike didn’t want more than sex. So it can’t be just finding someone who plays by the same rules he does. 

Being with Porthos isn’t easy because it’s free from commitment or expectations or labels; it’s easy because it’s Porthos.

For a moment it feels like his face is on fire and his fingers are in ice. 

“I know that expression. Are you going to tell me again about my salsa being too mild?” Athos asks.

“What?” Aramis shakes his head. “No, just tired.” There’s a buzzing against his hip and Aramis pulls his phone from his pocket. It’s a text from his mother but he doesn’t even bother reading it—it’s the perfect excuse to flee. “Duty calls. Dinner is on for Wednesday?"

Athos nods. “Bring dessert.”  Aramis hugs them both, kisses d’Artagnan on the head and thanks him again for the night out.

 

In his car, Aramis lets his head drop back against the headrest with a thud. He needs to think but he can’t do it here in front of their house. Athos would make fun of him for weeks, for one thing, and d’Artagnan would worry. He just starts driving.

When he finds himself at a table in the coffee shop he and Porthos usually go to together, he admits it’s probably time to stop avoiding the subject even with himself. The usual kinds of couples are all around him. To Aramis’ eyes they are all still too overly demonstrative, too nervous as they look at each other, too wrapped up in the other’s approval. It’s that suffocating closeness he’s always wanted to avoid, that look he knows he had on his own face when he convinced himself he could be anyone Isabel wanted if she’d just love him back. 

That’s still the thing that tightens around his heart at the idea of dating, how willingly he gave up who he was to give Isabel who she wanted. How hard he worked to convince her that’s who he already was. And maybe that’s the difference. Just that. Porthos has known exactly who Aramis is from the first moment they met, and neither of them has ever pretended to be anything else. Not until the last few weeks. 

If—and this is such a dangerous thought,but—if he can convince Porthos that they don’t have to be anything other than what they are, and still move forward—

His phone buzzes again, a call this time.

“Mama."

“Is your invitation to Isabel’s wedding for just you or is it you plus one?"

Aramis brain stutters as it tries to keep up with the shift in mental direction. “I… I believe it’s for me and a guest."

There’s a pause. “Oh."

“What’s going on, Mama?"

“Jeanine called and wanted to talk about the seating charts. She was going on and on about how Isabel was making room for you and your guest even though you’d probably be coming alone."

“I haven’t told them either way, I’m still trying to decide if I want to go.”  That’s a lie. He knows he’ll go, he needs to prove to himself that he can be around her and still _be_ himself. It’s the perfect setting, it’s where he needs to test his limits and his new strength—with where they failed before.

His mother sounds more irritated than he’s heard her in months, only someone coming after one of her children can drive her to this. “She tried to make a joke about you not bringing a guest because you weren’t the type to pick just one. I had half a mind to set her straight about a few things, but I remember how I was before your sister’s wedding and right now Jeanine is so wrapped up in that, she wouldn’t even notice me correcting her."

He _isn’t_ the type to pick just one. Why would he ever pick just one? Except Aramis is pretty sure he just did. 

She’s still talking. “I’ll sit her down when this is all over, maybe—"

“Mama, it’s okay. I’ll set her straight myself; I’ll bring a guest."

“Are you going to take Porthos?”  She sounds delighted.

“If he’ll go."

“Are you going to pretend to be boyfriends again?"

Something in her voice makes it sound like she disapproves, but he’ll have to propose it just like that. He and Porthos need to have a conversation before they can be anything other than pretend, but Aramis doesn’t want to do it over text or phone, and Porthos has been hard to get to see in person this last week. He could wait until dinner at Athos’, but that would be too late to send the RSVP; hell, he’s already past the deadline. It’s fine. They’ll talk at the wedding.

“Something like that, Mama."

“I can’t wait to see you both there. Tell Porthos to save me a dance. I love you, Aramis."

“I love you, too,” he says and thumbs the End button before sliding over to his text messages and bringing up Porthos’ name.

 

_How do you feel about free cake?_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don't: wait that long to send in the RSVP card for a wedding. You're just pissing off whoever has to make the seating chart.
> 
> Do: go to your ex's weddings. It's an excellent chance to validate the comparative awesomeness of your life. Also there's free cake.


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Put a chapter count on this thing, we're almost done.

_How do you feel about free cake?_

Porthos stares at his screen. It’s not the most random text he’s ever gotten from Aramis, but it’s a curiosity nonetheless. He swallows the lump in his throat at the sight of Aramis’ name and tries to rein in his heart while he makes the call.

“Hey,” Aramis says and Porthos hears something like nervousness in his tone.

“Who doesn’t like cake?” Porthos asks.

Aramis laughs. “I have no idea. Still, this cake comes with obligations."

“Obligations?"

There’s wind and road noise in the background of the connection and Porthos knows that Aramis is in the car, probably heading home from his night out with d’Artagnan. Porthos wonders if they were able to convince Athos to make them breakfast.

“I hate to ask, because I know you feel the same way I do about these things, but this one is a special circumstance. There’s a wedding—."

“That’s not ‘obligations,’ Aramis, that’s torture. I can go to your mom’s bakery and buy a cake if I want one that much."

“My mother will be there and you can make that point directly to her. Come on, Porthos. We’re good at this."

Stuck now, with visions of Aramis in a suit playing in his mind, Porthos starts grasping at straws. “Wait, why is your mother going?"

“She and Isabel’s mother are friends, they have been since we were kids. That’s part of why I have to go, it’ll be conspicuous if my mother is there and I’m not.” 

Aramis in a suit. Dancing with Aramis. Kissing him and having an excuse for the sappy smile on his face. It’s still enough to tempt him. Even with the hurt he knows will come, it’s still enough to tempt him.

“Since when do you care about conspicuous?”  Porthos asks. Yeah, he already knows he’ll go. He already knows he wants this memory, no matter what the cost to get it.

Aramis is quiet for a second. “Please, Porthos. Come to my ex-girlfriend’s wedding with me and help me win the break-up."

“You stopped dating her ages ago,” Porthos says, turning his coffee cup on his desk over and over, a quarter-turn at a time.

“Porthos,” Aramis’ voice is low and serious. “It is _never_ too late to win a break-up."

He can’t help a little laugh. “Yeah, alright.” 

There’s a smile in Aramis’ voice now. “It’s going to be great. And it’ll give us a chance to catch up. I feel like I haven’t seen you in ages."

It’s been just over a week but Porthos knows the feeling all too well. He doesn’t need to tell Aramis that it’s more than accidental, that he’d needed a break after that dinner Aramis’ mother’s house. That he’d needed to put at least one date with someone else between that night and now.

“I’ll give you the details at dinner on Wednesday, alright? At Athos’?"

Porthos agrees, and then fakes an incoming call so he can hurry off the phone. He spends the next ten minutes with his head in his hands. He can do this. He can go to this thing and hold hands and kiss and touch and soak that up even while he knows that it’s only the lie that Aramis wants. The lie, and a friend nearby.

 

Wednesday comes and one of his team members has their laptop stolen while traveling; Porthos spends the rest of the day and a good chunk of the evening dealing with the fallout. What was on there? Is there client data? How sensitive is the information? By the time he gets off the phone with the head of Information Security for the company, it’s after 8 and he just can’t deal with an evening of Aramis telling him all the ways they’re going to lie, not even for Athos’ cooking.  He sends a group text to Aramis, Athos, and d’Artagnan begging off for the night and stops for Chinese food on the way home. He’s barely halfway through one of the eggrolls when he falls asleep on the couch.

 

He sends another text on Friday morning when he knows that Aramis is at work and probably elbow-deep in puppies. 

_Send me details about Saturday. Looking forward to cake._

There’s a response a few hours later.

_Standard wedding clothes, you’re already hot enough to make everyone jealous. Pick you up tomorrow at 1? Was hoping to talk to you before, but we can talk there._

Porthos replies to say that all sounds fine, and then he sits back in his chair and tries to figure out what in hell Aramis could want to talk to him about that he’d bring it up like this. Is it just an after-action report on his night at the club? Usually that’s the kind of thing they’d talk about over breakfast, but there hasn’t been a chance.  Or maybe d’Artagnan told Aramis about Todd, and now Aramis wants details. 

There isn’t much to tell, they’d had drinks, a quick fuck back at Todd’s house, and then Porthos had made his excuses and left. “Have to get home before he wonders where I am,” he’d said. Todd’s eyes had glittered with the idea that Porthos was sneaking around as he said, “We should do this again soon.”

Porthos wonders if he’d succeeded at covering his look of distaste.

Of course, the other _other_ option is that Aramis is ready to call an end to the fake dates, and pretending to be something they aren’t. If that’s it, then it’s probably for the best.  Porthos knows that, no matter how hard his traitorous heart is hammering at the thought of not getting to see that adoring look on Aramis’ face, even as a lie.

 

He’s straightening out the knot in his tie when the doorbell rings just before one on Saturday. Porthos gets to the door and stops with his hand on the knob to take two deep breaths before opening it. He thinks he’s prepared. He thinks he’s ready for this. 

No. He is in no way prepared for the sight of Aramis in a suit. There’s a slight sheen to the shirt and it’s picking up the soft blue of Aramis’ tie. His hair is curling around his face with the length in the back held back in a hair tie. The white of the shirt is stark against his wrists, and Porthos knows that when Aramis puts his jacket on it’s going to hug his back in a way that will make Porthos ache to trace the lines of his shoulder blades.  Beard trimmed, tie loose, collar open, Aramis looks better than Porthos could ever have imagined.

“Heya,” Porthos says, because that’s the only word his brain can make.

“Wow.”  Aramis is staring at him like he’s never seen Porthos dressed up. 

“You’ve seen me in a suit before,” Porthos points out. “When you came to my office before dinner with your grandmother."

“Sunsets don’t get less gorgeous because you’ve seen a dozen of them, Porthos."

Porthos stares at him, finally seeing the twitch at the corner of Aramis’ mouth. “You are such a shit," he says, breaking into a grin in spite of himself.

Aramis laughs. “Let’s go."

As they’re pulling away from the curb, Aramis takes a deep breath and visibly grips the steering wheel. He’s opening his mouth to speak when Porthos feels his phone vibrate in his pocket.  It’s his father calling.

“I’ve been meaning—"

“Hold that thought, Aramis,” Porthos says and puts the phone to his ear. “Hey, old man."

Having answered because he worried something was wrong, Porthos now has to spend the rest of the ten-minute drive to the church listening to his father gripe about the kids on the fencing team he coaches. He shoots an apologetic look at Aramis and shrugs. Aramis smiles and waves his hand as if to say, _Tell him hi for me._

“Listen, Dad, Aramis and I are almost at this thing we’re going to, and I need to run. He says hi, by the way.”  There’s a pause and Porthos drops his head back against the seat. “Yeah, I’m sure they are, but I have to—“  A sigh and another thirty seconds of silence on Porthos’ part before he sits up just a little straighter and says, “Actually, speaking of Aramis, he and I were talking and we’ve got a great idea. Did you know his mother is also single?”  He grins at Aramis who is staring at him in shock. “What? Well if you have to go, that’s fine. We can talk about this later. Love you, too."

Porthos hangs up just as they’re pulling in the parking lot for the church.  “From time to time I forget just how diabolical you can be, Porthos,” Aramis says, throwing the car into park.  

“Listen, I—“ Aramis continues, but he’s cut off by the sound of the church bell. “Shit, we’re going to be late.”  They scramble out of the car and into the vestibule of the building.  

A teenaged boy greets Aramis by name and hands them a program before escorting them toward the left side of the church.  Catching sight of Aramis’ mother waving them over, they slide into the pew next to her and accept kisses and hugs. “You both look so handsome,” she murmurs and Aramis kisses her cheek again just before the processional music starts and everyone stands. 

Whatever Porthos was expecting, Isabel isn’t quite it.  She’s tiny and pale and her enormous brown eyes are shining with happiness. The dress is a bit overwhelming on her, but Porthos supposes that feeling like a princess is more important to her than wearing the right dress for her frame. She has her hand curled around her father’s arm but she has eyes for no one but her intended.  Flicking a glance to the front of the church, Porthos can see that the groom is staring at her, tears running down over the corners of his broad smile.  It’s almost enough to make him believe in romance.

The ceremony is blessedly brief. The only part of it Porthos will remember later is that the couple wrote their own vows. Isabel’s were mostly forgettable but when the groom said his, he looked down at her luminous face and said, “I know that no matter what comes our way, we’ve got this. We’re a team. You are my best friend.” His voice had cracked on _friend_ and Porthos had to look up at the altar flowers to keep his face from crumpling. 

During the exchanging of rings, Aramis apparently catches sight of a friend because he waves and with his other hand he reaches for Porthos as if to twine their fingers together. Porthos turns his palm up and feels their skin slide together. He turns his best smile on Aramis and squeezes, and Aramis squeezes back. Even after he pulls away, Porthos’ fingers still curl over the ghost of Aramis’ hand.

Together the two of them escort Aramis’ mother to the reception venue, an enormous tent erected specifically for this occasion in the park behind the church. Aramis is on one side of his mother and Porthos is on the other, and they take it in turns to be charming and chivalrous until she tells them that neither of them is fooling her. She shares little bits of gossip about the extended family that weren’t invited to the wedding, and the misbehaving relatives who were. 

Isabel’s mother and Aramis’ mother have been friends since they were the only two single moms at PTA meetings and though they fight like siblings, they are still close.

“I’m looking forward to this being over,” she says. “Because it’s been all she could talk about for months. I’m so tired of talking about table linens.”  

“Well, for your sake, Mama, I hope she doesn’t immediately move onto obsessing about wanting to be a grandmother."

She pats his arm. “From your lips to God’s ears, Aramis.” 

At their table, ornately lettered name cards, blossom-dripping floral centerpiece and all, Aramis shrugs out of his jacket and drapes it over his chair. His shirt isn’t white after all, at least not in this light. It’s a soft silver, and it’s luminous against his skin. He smiles and Porthos wants to freeze the moment. They’re not pretending for anyone, they’re just themselves, friends having a good time together.

“Come on, let’s go fortify ourselves,” Aramis says and gestures in the direction of the bar. They’re standing in line, happily munching an appetizer Porthos snagged from a passing server, when Aramis says, “I was sorry you had to miss dinner this week.” He smirks. "I mean, I’m sure it was hard on you being without my presence but—"

“Aramis!”  They both turn toward the sound and Porthos sees a small, round, slightly frazzled-looking woman heading toward them.

“Oh hello, Mrs. Tjan,” Aramis says, his polite smile firmly in place. The corners of his eyes are tight and Porthos knows tension in Aramis’ face when he sees it.  He slips his hand into Aramis’ and squeezes. This is what he’s here for, after all.  Aramis squeezes back.

“Porthos, this is the bride’s mother and an old friend of the family. Mrs. Tjan, this is Porthos.” There’s a beat that Porthos assumes is for dramatic emphasis and Aramis says, “My boyfriend."

“Pleasure to meet you,” Porthos says, shaking her hand. “Everything is so beautiful. I love the peonies on the tables.” In his periphery, he can see Aramis’ eyebrows go up. “And the food so far is incredible. If the rest of the meal is anything like the appetizers, I’m going to steal Aramis’ portion.” 

Isabel’s mother flushes under the praise and presses his hand. “We’re so glad you could both be here. I need to go, but it was a pleasure meeting you as well, Porthos.  Aramis, it’s nice to see you."

When she’s gone, Aramis squeezes his hand again and bumps their shoulders together. “You’re good. I knew I’d have a better time with you here, but I didn’t realize you’d manage to impress all the mothers. I wouldn’t recognize a peony if one introduced itself to me."

Porthos shrugs and asks the bartender for two beers. “You didn’t have to suffer through the preparations for my cousin’s wedding. If I never see another floral centerpiece again I’ll be happy. The food tastings were fun, I’ll give it that. But otherwise that whole process is one of the reasons I— It wasn’t something I want to repeat."

Aramis raises his beer bottle. “I’ll drink to that."

Porthos grins. “If Athos and the kid start thinking about this, I say we lock them in the trunk until they come to their senses. They’re bad enough as it is."

There’s something a little distant in Aramis’ smile, but he agrees and together they walk back to their table.

“Hey, you’ve tried to say something about three times and you keep getting interrupted. What’s up? Tell me something to make it easier to sit through them dumping their couplehood all over us.” Porthos knows what it is, how could he not? He hasn’t been nearly as good at keeping his emotions off his face as he’s wanted to be. 

Aramis opens his mouth and then stops; he looks like he’s been caught by something on Porthos’ face. Porthos drops the shutter even harder, schooling his face perfectly still.  Shaking his head, Aramis says, “You know what? It’s not important. Let’s just enjoy the evening, yes? Perhaps we can make them regret having an open bar."

Porthos smiles and nods, swallowing down his relief. He’s grateful Aramis isn’t going to do it in the middle of this room while they still have hours left together. He’s glad he’s going to have the rest of the night before Aramis says that this isn’t what they’d always wanted. It will be better, he tells himself. It will be better than this kind of half-life he’s had for the last few weeks. Nothing strands you like a lie, and while he and Aramis had been stranded together while they were lying to everyone else, the minute Porthos started lying to Aramis, the minute he’d decided to take any scrap of togetherness he could get, he’s been more alone than ever.

It will hurt, of course it will. Being left behind, being disposable, has hurt every time.  It hurt when he was five, it hurt when he was twenty, it will hurt now. He tries to console himself with the fact that at least it’ll be an honest hurt, and no one else will be caught in the crossfire.

Somehow, this is where the tension dissipates. Aramis is no longer trying to break the bad news, and Porthos has resigned himself to the conversation when it comes—that means they can get on with what they’re there to do. 

They both turn to watch the first dance and Aramis drapes his arm over the back of Porthos’ chair, his thumb toying with the collar of Porthos’ shirt.  Under the guise of stretching, Porthos leans his head back into it, feeling Aramis’ thumbnail drag against the skin of his neck. 

Dinner is both salmon and chicken. They’re each nice, but to Porthos, neither is as nice as sitting next to Aramis, feeling the warm places where their legs are touching. From time to time, Porthos leans into Aramis’ space and says something in his ear. Usually something about the music, or one of the other people at the table. Aramis laughs every time, a soft chuckle that Porthos imagines he can feel against his skin. 

Near the end of dinner, the happy couple stops by their table. Isabel looks tired but the smile on her face isn’t just for show. She also looks genuinely pleased to see Aramis. “I was so glad to get your RSVP,” she says. “And even more glad that you’d be bringing someone.”  

Porthos extends his hand, introducing himself first to Isabel and then to her new husband. “It’s so nice to meet you,” she says and Porthos believes her. “And lucky you for snagging a guy as great as Aramis. Have you been together long?"

Porthos turns to Aramis, and sees something in his eyes that looks like a mix of fear and gratitude and determination. This is what Porthos is here for, to have Aramis’ back. This he can do. He smiles at Aramis and lets everything that’s been growing in his heart shine in his eyes. “Nah, it’s been four amazing years.” He uses his little finger to brush one of Aramis’ curls off his forehead and trace the edge of his face. “Sometimes it feels like we just started dating, most days it feels like I’ve always known him."

Aramis reaches up and takes Porthos’ hand, pressing the palm flat against his cheek and leaning into it, closing his eyes. Porthos can feel his throat tighten and his fingers itch to stroke Aramis’ face. If he has to give this up—and he can hardly go on like this forever, now can he? Then this is the kind of night he wants to have as a memory. 

“It’s great to see you so happy, Aramis,” Isabel says. She sounds like she means it.

“I really am,” Aramis says, smiling up at her, and that’s the kicker. So does Aramis.

“The happiest,” Porthos says. He gives in to the urge of a moment ago, and strokes Aramis’ jaw before letting go.

“Porthos, I’m sure you know Aramis likes to dance. Are you going to join him out on the floor later?”  When Porthos nods, Isabel says, “Well, we’ll see you out there, then.”  She gives Aramis a quick hug and drifts off to another table. 

Aramis picks up his beer and tosses the rest of it back. “Thank you, “ he says. “I have officially won this breakup."

“That’s what I’m here for,” Porthos says, and he tries to make it sound like he’s not swallowing glass.

“That and the cake."

“Oh yeah. Can’t forget the cake.” 

They do dance later. Porthos lets Aramis cut loose to the fast songs on his own, usually swinging his mother around, and laughing loud and long. When the slow music starts, he makes his way over to the dance floor and pulls Aramis into his arms. 

Pulling back, Aramis looks him in the eye.  “Really, Porthos? Adele?"

“Shut it, you,” Porthos says. He tugs Aramis in closer. “I told Isabel we’d get some slow dancing in, and this certainly counts.”  Porthos is leading, putting to work every bit of the two weeks of ballroom dance he’d had in eleventh grade gym class.  Aramis’ hand is strong in his, holding but not clenching. His back is warm under Porthos’ hand, warm and wonderfully solid. He’s felt that skin bare, covered in sweat and raked with fingernail marks, but this is something special. 

Aramis leans forward until their foreheads touch, and smiles. Porthos closes his eyes, memorizing everything he can about this moment. When he feels Aramis move, sliding closer until their heads are pressed together, temple to temple and leaning into each other, he can’t hold in a sigh. He curls his arm in, bringing the back of Aramis’ hand to his chest and pulling him that littlest bit closer. 

This is the exact kind of moment Porthos has spent half his life trying to avoid. Because it never lasts. It never stays. Someone cheats or someone lies or someone just _leaves_. The people having this perfect moment go on to become people who put on a show in a coffee shop to pretend how happy they are instead of actually working to _be_ happy. They expect the world and give nothing and in the end someone is alone, wondering what just happened. 

With Aramis warm in his arms, with Aramis’ fingers toying with the hair at the nape of his neck, Porthos understands, just a little, how a moment like this could make all those people try anyway.

The song fades into another, still slow, so neither of them stops moving. Porthos lets go of Aramis’ hand and slides his arms around Aramis’ waist; he can feel Aramis’ hands against the back of his neck. 

“The salmon was awful,” Aramis says in a soft voice, “but this is making up for a lot. Then again, it’s never a bad night when I get to put my hands all over you."

Porthos sighs. “Shut up, Aramis. Shut up and look happy.” Aramis laughs and Porthos can feel it in his chest.

“How about if I kiss you instead?”

Of course, kissing, that would be expected right about now. A couple in a romantic moment, naturally there would be some kissing. 

It’s been so long since they kissed, but the first touch of Aramis’ mouth against his is still as familiar as breathing. Porthos sighs into it, and lets his mouth fall open.  It’s the kind of kiss that got them into trouble in the first place, deep and soft and long. Aramis’ tongue is slick against his own and Porthos can’t hold back a little groan as he returns the touch. He would happily have stayed on this dance floor, swaying and kissing and not noticing the time, were it not for the soft noise of someone clearing their throat just to Porthos’ right.

“Do you mind if I cut in?” Aramis’ mother says. “I have to leave soon and I wanted to get one dance in with my son that doesn’t feel like a workout."

Porthos laughs and steps aside, waving her in. “Be my guest,” he says and heads for the table. He stops for a drink on the way, not because he particularly wants it, but because without it he won’t have anything to do with his hands and they’ll keep itching to hold Aramis again.

The cake is red velvet.  Porthos has no idea if it’s good or not, everything tastes like dust in his mouth.

In the car on the way back to his house, Porthos waits while the silence stretches on. It’s not tense, it’s just… quiet. 

“Well,” he says at last, because somebody has to say _something_. “I’m not saying that was the _worst_ torture I’ve ever gone through for cake. But I was sure glad to get out of there.” It’s not a lie, not really.  And maybe now that he’s said it, now that he’s reminded Aramis that big romantic gatherings and big romantic gestures aren’t his thing, maybe they won’t have to have the conversation that Aramis put off all afternoon. If Aramis thinks they’re back on proper footing, then Porthos can just turn down any other opportunities to pretend, even for fun, and they can just put this all behind them. Somehow.

Aramis huffs a laugh but doesn’t look at him. “Yeah, that was a kind of torture for sure. Too much happy couples shit.”

And there it is.

“Way too much. Did you still want to talk?” 

“No,” Aramis says. “No, it’s fine.” They’re pulling up in front of Porthos’ house and Aramis isn’t parking. “I know I owe you something suitably steamy to make up for today, but can we take a rain check? The champagne is giving me a headache and I just—"

“It’s fine, I’m feeling the same. Early night, eh? Maybe coffee tomorrow?"

Aramis smiles, tired and tight, and nods. “It is Sunday after all."

Usually their Sunday coffee meet-ups are after long, sweat-soaked nights, but Porthos is pretty sure he’s going to spend tonight on the sofa, half-watching TV and trying not to think about how he’s in love with a man who is amazing in bed, is his best friend, and thinks relationships are for chumps. He’s going to try not to think about the fact that no matter how hard he’s tried, this still feels like a breakup. And he’s just as alone.

 

Porthos is counting the days as he walks up the front walk to Athos and d’Artagnan’s house.

It’s been two weeks. Two weeks of awkward dinners, but at least Constance is off nights now so her presence keeps it from being too tense. Two weeks of stilted texts about things that don’t mean anything, texts that would have been enough to start a conversation once, but now just land flat. Two weeks and they haven’t spoken on the phone. This is the longest they’ve gone without fucking since Aramis stuck his hands in Porthos’ back pockets at the bar all those years ago.

Tonight is a bigger party, it’s technically for Athos’ office but d’Artagnan has invited other friends over. “To keep me from being bored out of my mind,” he’d said. “They’re all very nice people, but I need you there so I can come over and be myself a few times during the night.”  

The first hour is d’Artagnan trying unsuccessfully to start the gas grill on the back porch, only to rope Porthos in to avert certain disaster. After that, Porthos finds a comfortable spot in the living room and pulls Constance down beside him. “Tell me something funny,” he says, and she spins him a tale of some of the cases she’s seen come through the ER doors in the last month. 

Midway through her explaining to him that there is in fact a specific diagnostic code for slicing your hand open while trying separate a frozen bagel, Aramis comes through the door.

“Oh, he’s looking good,” Constance says, waving Aramis over.

“Look at you both,” Aramis says, “the second and third best looking people in the room.”  Constance rolls her eyes as Aramis kisses her cheek.

“You’re sounding happy, must have made it through the entire day without something pissing on you,” she says.

Aramis laughs and takes the spot next to her on the sofa. “Better, in fact. They’ve made me shift lead.”

She laughs and hugs him. “Good for you! I know you’ve been wanting that and I’m glad it’s come through."

Porthos smiles, watching them interact and thinking that he’d had no idea Aramis was even up for a promotion.

“Well done, Aramis. How long have you been waiting to hear?”  There was a time when Porthos would have already known it all, from the minute Aramis started thinking about it to the second it came through. Fuck, this hurts.

“Just a couple of weeks,” Aramis says. He shrugs. "It doesn’t come with more money, but it’s a nice recognition. Good for the resume."

Porthos holds out his hand. “Congratulations, man.”  Aramis takes his hand and Porthos takes a second to enjoy the warm slide of their skin touching. 

“Porthos, I thought you’d be the first to know,” Constance says. “Usually you two are joined at the brain."

Aramis takes his hand back, and uses it to scrub at the back of his neck. “Ah, it’s been a busy couple of weeks. And I didn’t want to jinx it."

Nodding, Porthos tries to keep his face even, to keep the naked want from his eyes.  Across the room they can hear a nervous laugh and Constance jumps up. 

“That’s Anne’s ‘an asshole won’t leave me alone’ laugh, I’m going to go rescue her.  I’ll be right back, boys!”  She reaches out and grabs Aramis’ hand. “Congrats again, you earned it.”  There’s a smile for Porthos too, and the brush of her fingers over his hair as she walks past.

When she’s gone, the silence between them threatens to stretch on and on.

“So,” Porthos says, just to break the tension. “Does this mean you’re going to get to force the turtles off on the other techs?"

Aramis laughs and Porthos feels his heart speed up. “I do hate the turtles. Nasty bastards, and they’re always pissing on me.” He rubs his hands over his knees. “I hadn’t thought about pushing them off on someone else but yes, I suppose that is in my authority now. You’re good, Porthos. You’re very good.” 

He smiles and Porthos smiles back and for a second it’s like nothing ever happened. Like they didn’t kiss at Edgar’s or dance at the wedding or wake up in each other’s arms in Aramis’ mother’s guest room. _Oh, I miss you_ , Porthos thinks, but before he can soak it in any more, Constance is back with Anne in tow.

“Look at you both,” Anne says. “I almost never see you both out of work clothes at the same time. We should record this for posterity.”  She smiles, and who can resist her? She pulls out her phone and points it at them, then waves. “Get closer."

It’s all he can do to stifle an actual groan. The entire evening seems to be turning into a kind of slow torture. First the smiles and the stilted conversation, and now they’re pressed against each other all along one side and Porthos can smell Aramis’ hair. He has a sudden, vicious flashback to how it felt to work shampoo into that hair and feel it under his hands. He can feel the water over his skin and the tangle of Aramis’ hair in his fingers and everything that came after. 

Sheer, bitter force of will is the only thing that keeps Porthos from burying his nose in the hair behind Aramis’ ear. He feels like the worst kind of romance novel cliché. 

“No, closer,” Anne says, squinting down at her screen. “Wait, I know. Give us a kiss!” 

Porthos stomach drops. He can do this. He can. Sitting perfectly still as Aramis turns toward him, Porthos just stares ahead. There’s the warm, dry, press of Aramis’ lips to his cheek and Porthos feels his eyes close as he winces and tries not to flinch away. 

There’s a little frustrated noise from Anne. “Porthos, your eyes were closed. Try again?"

“No,” Porthos says at the same time that Aramis pulls back.

There must be something in his posture, on his face, or maybe it’s the way his eyes are slammed shut now, but Anne just quietly agrees. When Constance says they should get another round of drinks, Anne lets herself be steered away. 

“I can’t do this,” Porthos says.

Aramis sighs and when he speaks again, his voice is smaller than Porthos has ever heard it. “It was too much, I know. That’s not what we’re about. No more pretending. No more mixing things up.”  He rakes his fingers through his hair. “I’ve missed seeing you lately, and if getting to talk to you again means going to my office Christmas party alone, then that’s more than fine. You’re absolutely right, Porthos. No more romantic shit, not even as a game."

And that’s it. That’s where Porthos hits his limit. Until now he’d really thought he would be fine with this option, that going back to what they had before would be enough as long as he kept his memories. Now that it seems to be becoming reality, though, he knows it wouldn’t be enough. The touches and kisses and love were all too good to pretend it was a mistake. Porthos isn’t going to sit here and watch Aramis face as he talks about how much he regrets everything. He’s not going to cry into this overpriced beer at a party he didn’t even want to come to. Standing, Porthos puts his drink on the coffee table. 

“It turns out,” he says, “I can’t do that either.”

If someone calls his name as Porthos is leaving, he doesn’t hear it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (It's Adele's cover of "Make You Feel My Love." In case you were curious. Because we go balls to the wall on sappy songs around here.)


	7. Chapter 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh. My god. You guys, you have to go see the [FREAKIN' AMAZING art](http://jlsdrawings.tumblr.com/post/143807085164) that [jlarinda](http://archiveofourown.org/users/jlarinda) drew for the wedding dance. It's just.. like, I cried a lot, I'm not ashamed. It's amazing and I'm ridiculously thankful and she is a sweetheart and I am lucky lucky.
> 
> As always, Cee, my Editor Extraordinare and Bestest Beta, makes everything better.
> 
> Thank you all for every kudos or comment or lovely note on Tumblr or flailing text, you spoil me rotten.

Aramis sits and watches Porthos walk away and tries to figure out what the fuck just happened. Because it sounded like Porthos just said he couldn’t be around Aramis anymore, and that is the only thing that could be worse than the tense ghost life they’ve had for the last two weeks.

No, they can fix this. They _have_ to fix this.

He’s on his feet and racing for the door as it swings closed behind Porthos.

“Aramis, what’s wrong?” Constance grabs his arm halfway across the room.

“I can’t. I have to— I’ll be back!” He shakes her hand off and takes off again.

He’s shouting Porthos’ name as he goes through the door. Porthos, not even halfway down the walkway, must hear him, but he never stops. Aramis starts running.

“Porthos! Stop!”

 When he catches up to Porthos, Aramis grabs his sleeve in one hand and braces himself against Porthos’ shoulder with his other hand.  

“Stop. Talk to me. Please?"

 Porthos’ face is so painfully sad. He looks defeated and small in a way that Aramis has never seen. “Leave it, Aramis. There’s—"

 “I can’t go back and make it so it never happened.”  Whether or not he’d want to is a subject best left untouched. Aramis is holding Porthos’ bicep now, looking him straight in the eye. “I hated lying to my friends and family. I know it must have felt shitty to you, because it sure felt shitty to me. And I know you wish we could just erase this. I wish I could do that for you, because nothing is worse than losing my best friend.” He takes another deep breath. “And that’s what’s been happening, isn’t it?"

Porthos doesn’t say anything. He looks like he’s just waiting for Aramis to stop talking and let go of his arm so he can leave, and Aramis is full-on panicking now.

“I can’t be the only one missing it, Porthos. Don’t you miss hanging out together, too? Don’t you miss being _us_?"

When he finally speaks, Porthos’ voice peels Aramis’ heart open. “Yeah. I do."

“Then tell me how to fix this. I can’t unmake what we did, but if you want to pretend it never happened, we can do that.” Aramis squeezes Porthos arm, tries to make the next part sound like it’s not killing him. “Never any hand holding. Never any wedding dancing. Never lied to our families about how perfect the other is. No problem.”

It sounds easy when he says it, it sounds like it won’t hurt every time he doesn’t reach out to take Porthos’ hand. Like he doesn’t want to grab it right now.

 As soon as Aramis says the words, a light in Porthos’ eyes goes out. The sadness is gone now, and all that’s left in its place is a terrible dead blankness. “That’s not gonna work, Aramis."

There’s a sound pushing its way out of Aramis’ throat and he’s terrified that when it comes out it’s going to be a sob. He has no idea what the look on his own face is, but it’s probably a reflection of the stricken pain in his heart. 

“Why? Why can’t it work?"

Porthos puts his hand over Aramis’ and for a second Aramis thinks he’s going to twine their fingers together. Instead he pulls Aramis’ fingers free of the fabric of his hoodie.

“Because that’s just it,” he says. “I _don’t_ wish we’d never done it. All those things you want to pretend never happened? I miss _them_ , too. And I wasn’t lying. Not ever."

Free of Aramis’ grip, Porthos turns and starts heading for his car again.

Aramis is standing in the dark, under a weak streetlamp, his hair curling at the tips from the damp night, trying to string Porthos’ words together in a way that makes sense.  Of course they were lying. They were both lying. That was the point. 

Except. They’d lied about how they’d met and how long they’d been dating. They’d lied about living together. Almost everything else Aramis had said had been a form of the truth. Even saying ‘I love you.' Even when Aramis wanted those things to be a lie so much he pretended not to notice how good they felt to say.

If Porthos— If Porthos wasn’t lying either. It’s so close; Aramis can feel something just past the edges of his fingers as he reaches for it. Porthos wasn’t lying, even at the wedding, but he thinks Aramis was. Porthos misses it, but he thinks Aramis doesn’t. Neither of them was lying. Neither of them wants to go back.  

Aramis looks up and sees that Porthos is out of earshot and almost to his car.  He’s about to get in and close the door and drive away thinking that what Aramis really wants is to never again kiss him so softly that Porthos makes that little noise of want in the back of his throat.

Fuck that.

He can hear his heart pounding in time with his feet as he runs.  Every footfall hits the pavement so hard that Porthos must be able to hear him, because he shoves his hands into his pockets and picks up his own pace. The distance between them is shrinking, but Aramis watches Porthos reach for the handle of his car door and knows that if he waits to say something it will be too late. Porthos might still get in that car and leave, but Aramis is damned if he’ll do it thinking Aramis doesn’t care.

“I miss telling your boss how proud I am of you,” he yells, the first thing that comes to mind. “I miss when you introduce me to people and they tell me how amazing you are and I get to say, ‘He’s incredible.’ I miss kissing you in front of my grandmother!"

Porthos stops, still holding the door handle, and turns to look at him. Aramis barely takes a breath; now that he’s started, he has to get it all out.

“I miss getting to stare at you openly like I didn’t know I’d been wanting to do for years. I miss saying I love you. While my friends are watching or your co-workers or just Athos and d’Artagnan. I miss saying it when we’re hanging out watching TV. I miss saying it. I miss that the most."

Aramis pushes his hands in the pocket of his jeans and covers the last four feet between them in two strides. He never looks away from Porthos. “I miss that the most because— Because I meant it every time. I meant everything."

“Everything?” Porthos says, and his voice is so quiet. 

“Everything. Even the shit we said we never wanted. Slow kisses and telling people how happy we are together and talking about how fucking amazing you are all the time. Every time I accidentally called you ‘my Porthos’ out loud because I couldn’t stop myself. Being in love with you. I meant everything."

His fingers slip from the car handle and Porthos takes two steps toward Aramis. He’s searching Aramis’ face, hunting for something behind his eyes. “You better not be messing with me," Porthos says.

Aramis shakes his head. 

“Promise me.”

Reaching out, Aramis curls his fingers into the front of Porthos’ shirt. “I have spent weeks lying to you while telling everyone else the truth, but not now. I promise you. I’m terrified, standing here like this. It’s the hardest thing I’ve ever done, but I’m not lying."

There’s nothing in the seconds after Aramis finishes talking. No birds, no breeze, not even the sound of his own breathing. When Porthos’ fingers touch his neck, Aramis can feel his pulse thump against them and the sounds of the world start again. He can hear the slide of Porthos’ skin against his own and see Porthos leaning in and Aramis wants to kiss him more than he wants to draw his next breath.

When Porthos’ mouth touches his, Aramis sobs into the kiss; he fists his hands in Porthos’ shirt and he arches up into it and he doesn’t care how needy he seems. He doesn’t care if people see or if they look foolish, clinging to each other on the street. All he cares about is how Porthos feels against him, and how it feels to kiss him again with no secrets between them.

Porthos kisses him until the worst of the desperation has been burned off, and then pulls away with a last soft kiss against Aramis’ lips. “Thought I’d never get that."

Aramis curls his fingers over Porthos’ palms where they’re cupping his face. “Can we start over? Please?” 

“No.” Porthos shakes his head, but he doesn’t let go. “I don’t want to lose any of it. But we can start _again_ , if you want."

Closing his eyes, tightening his fingers around Porthos’ hands, Aramis tilts his head forward until he can drag his nose along Porthos’ and kiss him, quick and soft. “I would like that very much."

“I missed you,” Porthos says, stroking Aramis’ face, his hair, his neck, down over his shoulders. “I missed you so damn much. It just hurt —“ 

“Even to be around. I know. I kept thinking I’d give myself away. It was becoming impossible to pretend I didn’t care."

“Me too,” Porthos says. “I spent the whole time at the wedding storing it all up, holding you as tight as I wanted."

“Take me home,” Aramis says.

“Whose home?"

"Don’t you know that everywhere is home as long as you’re there?”  

Aramis’ voice is so earnest, so sincere, that Porthos stares at him for a few seconds trying to figure out how to say that even for this moment, that’s a bit—

“You fucker,” Porthos says. Aramis drops his head to Porthos shoulder, shaking with laughter. “You complete fucker."

“I’m sorry. I couldn’t stop myself,” Aramis says. “I know that’s a bit sappy even at a time like this.”

Porthos smiles and drops a kiss into his hair. “Nah, you be as sappy as you want, but we wouldn’t be us if I didn’t give you shit for it."

“Yes,” Aramis turns and presses a kiss to Porthos’ neck. “And I love being us. Your house, I think; you’ve got a better bed."

In the car, Porthos keeps his fingers intertwined with Aramis’, even as he shifts. 

“Every time I tried to picture telling you, I never got this far. I always imagined I’d have to make all these sensible arguments."

Porthos brings their joined hands to his mouth and kisses Aramis’ knuckles one by one, then his fingertips, nipping at the pads. “Is this what you kept trying to talk about at the wedding?"

Aramis turns away from the passing streetlights and smiles at Porthos, nodding. “I thought you knew. I thought you knew what I was going to say, that I’d been so obvious, and that you didn’t want it. So I changed my mind and didn’t say anything."

“I’ve wanted it from the moment we kissed at Edgar’s. If I’m honest.” Aramis stares at him. “I know,” Porthos says. "We’re terrible at this."

“We are not good at it, no.”

Porthos grins at him. “Probably ought to just stick with each other then, keep anyone else from having to suffer through us."

Aramis untangles his fingers from Porthos’ and strokes the hair at the nape of his neck. “I thought you hated relationships.”  

Porthos shakes his head. “I just hated being worried all the time that I was doing the wrong thing and that I’d be left behind. Better to say I wanted to be alone, that way it was my choice.” He pauses, checking both directions before making a left turn. "I thought you hated dating."

Stretching over the parking brake, Aramis kisses Porthos on his earlobe, then the soft hollow behind his ear and the warm, thumping pulse in his neck. “Not anymore. Not with you.” He tugs on one of Porthos’ curls.

Porthos catches his hand and kisses the pulse point in his wrist. 

 

With Porthos’ front door closed behind them, Aramis rocks up into Porthos, kissing him deep and pouring every bit of his heart into it. Holding nothing back for the first time in weeks. 

“Nothing is as good as you,” Porthos says. “I tried.”  

Aramis sucks a bruise into the hollow under Porthos’ jaw. “Was it Todd?” he asks. When Porthos nods, Aramis kisses him again. “I tried, too.” 

Porthos backs Aramis into the door, slotting his thigh in between Aramis’ legs and kissing him breathless. “Want to tell me about it?"

Aramis throws his head back, letting Porthos drag his teeth over the column of Aramis’ neck. “The bartender at the club, the upstairs one."

Pulling back, Porthos looks him in the eye. “The hot one with the really broad shoulders?”  Aramis nods. Porthos’ mouth stretches into a broad grin. “Nice!” 

Aramis laughs into the kiss he plants on Porthos’ mouth. “I suppose I have a fondness for getting it behind that club.”  Another kiss. “You’re better."

“Of course I’m better.” Porthos’ smile is filthy. “But I’m always up for reminding you of that."

“Is this you…” Aramis trails off; he can’t find the right words.

“It’s not a punishment, Aramis. I’m not claiming you or something.” Porthos kisses Aramis so softly. “Hey,” Porthos says after a moment; Aramis blinks and looks at him, finally. “Being fucked by someone you’re in love with is—“ He smiles again. "Let me show you."

Aramis puts two and two together and thinks about Porthos’ face the last time they’d had sex, about that split second before the mask came back on. Aramis had been so afraid of what his own expression might show that he’d missed the truth in Porthos’. He smiles back. “I could never turn that down.”  

He pulls away and heads for the bedroom, stripping off his clothing as he goes.

Porthos stops just inside the bedroom door, looking at Aramis where he’s standing next to the bed. The lamp is on, casting a warm, yellow light over the room and Aramis’ skin is glowing golden.

“Are you standing there because you know how good you look right now?"

Shifting his weight from one foot to another, Aramis shakes his head. He opens his mouth, then closes it again. Porthos steps up to him, rubbing his hands over Aramis’ shoulders.

“We’re gonna get better at the talking stuff, but this part we’re already good at."

“But not usually like this."

“C’mon, Aramis, you didn’t grow a second dick when you said you loved me. I’m pretty sure the only difference is that I’m going to kiss you a lot more and you’re gonna spend the night.”

They both know those won’t be the only differences, but Aramis loves Porthos for trying to calm his nerves. He remembers the night at his mother’s house and tries to imagine what it would feel like to wake up in Porthos’ arms like that without feeling terrified. He’s going to get to enjoy that touch and the smell of Porthos first thing in the morning, still warm from sleep.

“Try and stop me."

He dips his hands into Porthos’ jeans and tugs his shirt loose, pushing it up and over Porthos’ head and dropping it to the floor. Porthos reaches for him and Aramis grabs his wrist. “Don’t. Don’t move. Let me.”  

Porthos gives him a quick kiss and drops his hand. Aramis kisses Porthos’ shoulder, his chest, moves around behind him and noses at the nape of his neck. “When we were dancing, I kept touching this spot and thinking how I’d kiss it if I could.”  He puts his hands around Porthos waist and pulls him back. “Just like this,” he says and kisses the spot he’d been dreaming about for weeks. 

“That night I picked you up for dinner with Barry and Marissa,” Aramis says, “I watched how you moved in that shirt and all I could think of was how your back muscles must look. I wanted to touch them so much.”  Porthos brings his hands up to cover Aramis’ where they’re laying on his chest. Aramis kisses every place on Porthos’ back that shifts with the motion.

“Are you going to just kiss all the spots you’ve been looking at for the last two months?"

“Yes,” Aramis says. He moves back around until they’re facing each other and takes Porthos’ hand in his. “When you were washing my hair… No one has ever touched me like that. Your hands, I confess, have always been a weakness of mine.” He draws Porthos’ hand to his mouth, kissing the pad of each finger. “Do you know what else I’ve missed?" 

“So help me god, Aramis, if the next thing you put your mouth on isn’t my cock—“ 

Aramis drops to his knees, reaching for the button on Porthos’ jeans and kissing the skin of his belly above the waistband. “You have no patience,” he says as he draws Porthos’ zipper down. 

Porthos’ indignant scoff is swallowed into a gasp as Aramis wraps his mouth around Porthos’ cock, boxers and all.  He mouths along the length of it, soaking the fabric with his tongue. 

It’s barely a blowjob, mostly just Aramis sucking and licking at Porthos’ cock after he peels Porthos’ boxers down. His lazy pace is too much for Porthos, after just a few minutes his cock is dripping, jerking whenever Aramis lips touch it.

“Enough. Fuck, enough!”  He reaches down, gripping Aramis beneath his arms and hauling him up onto the bed.

Bracing himself over Aramis’ body, Porthos smiles at him.

“Well, come on,” Aramis says. “I’m waiting."

Porthos laughs. “Oh, I see. Well just for that…” He ducks his head to lick over one of Aramis’ nipples, biting at it and laughing when Aramis hisses. “You’re going to keep waiting."

Neither of them is watching the clock, but Aramis will swear later that Porthos prepping him takes at least three hours. It takes nothing like that kind of time, but Porthos is enjoying drawing it out.  Through it all, he is kissing Aramis. He nips Aramis’ neck, sucks kisses into his jaw and peppers them across his belly. Aramis never stops begging, twisting under Porthos and trying to get closer, faster, more of anything

" _This_ is why you don’t bottom more often when we fuck. You’re the one with no patience."

“You said I was going to get fucked by someone who’s in love with me.” Aramis gasps and rolls his hips up as Porthos twists his wrist. "Right now I see someone I’m in love with who is failing to get to the fucking."

“See, and you were worried that feelings would change this.” Porthos grabs Aramis by the ankle and yanks, pulling Aramis down the bed. He pushes Aramis leg up and drapes it over his shoulder, dragging the head of his cock over Aramis’ hole and up to nudge behind his balls. 

“You also promised me more kissing," Aramis says, hopeful and greedy.

Porthos grins, and Aramis watches it curl up one side of his mouth. He bends and kisses Aramis so softly that it barely feels real, just a brush of the mouth. Then another. Another, harder this time. Again and again with more pressure each time until Aramis opens under him like a whispered secret, just for Porthos.  Still with his tongue licking into Aramis’ mouth, Porthos pushes his cock into Aramis’ ass.

Aramis gasps into the kiss, it’s been too long since he had Porthos like this, how could he have forgotten how good this is? And Porthos was right, the love he’s feeling, that he’s admitting to feeling, makes the feeling of Porthos moving inside him even better.

If this were weeks ago, if he were still trying to believe they weren’t having boyfriend sex, Aramis would have his hands gripping the pillow or holding the headboard. Tonight he cups Porthos’ shoulders in his palms and runs his hands down Porthos’ arms. He strokes Porthos’ chest, rolling up into his body as Porthos fucks him.  Curling up, Aramis presses his forehead to Porthos’ chest and drags his hands up Porthos’ back.

Aramis touches everywhere he can reach, rakes his fingernails up the small of Porthos’ back and grips his waist. He clutches Porthos’ ass and pulls him deeper, before stroking his hands back up Porthos’ chest to cup his neck and pull him into a kiss.

“Fuck, your hands," Porthos says.

Porthos’ skin still feels the same, still the best thing Aramis has ever had under his hands. For so long now every touch has been tense or stolen or for show, he’s storing up on touches just for them.

Aramis closes his eyes, memorizing how it feels to have Porthos against him like this, thinking about how much he’s missed it.  When he opens them again, Porthos is staring down at him. When their eyes meet, Porthos freezes.  Everything freezes.

It hits Aramis, as he supposes it must be hitting Porthos, that for the first time in months, it’s just the two of them in the bed. There aren’t any secrets, there isn’t anything hidden. No one is masking an expression or fearing what shows in their eyes. He wants to tell Porthos how much it means to him to be in this moment, to have Porthos here with him like this and to know that all the years they spent learning each other, accepting each other, have given them this. This split second when everything behind their eyes is open. When he opens his mouth, none of those words come out, but the ones that do say all that anyway.

“I love you.” 

Porthos bends and bumps his nose against Aramis’. He drags their mouths together and kisses Aramis’ smile. Pulling back until he can look into Aramis’ eyes again, Porthos brushes a sweaty curl from his forehead.

“I love you, too."

He punctuates it with a roll of his hips and Aramis gasps at the renewed sensation. 

“My Porthos,” he says, and it’s like flipping a switch. Porthos groans so low it’s almost a growl and snaps his hips into Aramis. He drops his head and starts kissing Aramis from one side of his neck to the other, biting at the sensitive spot where Aramis’ shoulder meets his neck. Porthos runs his hands up under Aramis’ shoulders, curling over the top and gripping tight, using it as leverage to fuck into him harder. 

Aramis can feel everything taking him over. He’s gasping every time Porthos bites at him and dragging his own mouth over every part of Porthos he can reach. There’s sweat under his tongue and Aramis licks it away, sucking Porthos’ skin clean. They’ve fucked fast before, even hard and fast, but never with this kind of hunger. Never this personal. Getting to this point hasn’t made Porthos’ skin taste any differently, but the freedom to moan his appreciation into Porthos’ neck makes Aramis feel like it has.

Curling his hips up to meet Porthos’ thrusts, Aramis digs his fingernails into Porthos’ back and bites at the muscle just over Porthos’ heart.

“Shit. I.” Whatever else Porthos was going to say is lost as his face goes tight and he comes with a shout. 

When it passes, Porthos drops to Aramis’ chest, his face still buried in Aramis’ neck. “I meant to get you."

Aramis strokes his back. “I’m not worried, I know you won’t stop until I’m begging you to. After all you’re my boyfriend now, you _love_ me.” Porthos laughs and Aramis can feel it rumble against his chest. He pinches Aramis’ waist and Aramis yelps.

Porthos rolls off and pushes up onto one elbow; he uses a finger to hook Aramis under the chin, turning his face until their eyes meet. “I am,” he says. “And I do."

“I know. Now get your breath back, I expect your best."

Porthos swats at him, then rubs his hand over Aramis’ belly as his voice turns serious. “Earlier you said not anymore, not with me.” He gives Aramis a soft kiss. “What changed your mind?"

Aramis rolls onto his side Porthos closer, curls them into each other until their foreheads are touching and he’s speaking into the scant inches between them.

“I… When I met Isabel it was like the sun coming out. She was perfect to me, and I wanted to be perfect for her. I wanted her to love me. If I’d been older, maybe, or more confident. If I’d known myself better, that would have meant her loving me, as I was, but I wasn’t any of those things. So instead it meant becoming someone she could love. A woman like her would only love the best kind of man, and I wanted to be that man."

Porthos traces the length of Aramis’ nose. He doesn’t say a word, just waits for Aramis to continue. 

“At first it was listening to music she liked, or watching the shows she loved. As we went on, as we started to date and I fell for her more and more, I started giving up things I loved because they weren’t things I could share with her. By the time it finally ended…”  He’s searching for the words, knowing he doesn’t have to rush, Porthos is patient. “I had no idea who I was anymore. I didn’t know what I actually liked or thought. I had to remember how to make choices that weren’t dependent on how she would approve of them. And god, I’d spent so long loving things she loved that I was surrounded by her. I basically had to remake my life from things that didn’t remind me of her.” He takes a breath and tries to figure out how to tell Porthos how much he worried it would happen again. "I couldn’t—"

Porthos kisses him. “You wouldn’t."

“I spent so long becoming someone I recognized again, I wasn’t going to give it up. I wasn’t going to feel taken over and lost in my own life. Maybe I was older and wiser enough not to make the same mistake again, but why risk it?"

“She’s just one girl, Aramis. It’s one relationship. "

“I know, and it’s ridiculous. I don’t give up cooking because I can’t make one dish."

“Probably should, though. You’re a terrible cook."

Aramis nips at Porthos’ lower lip. Porthos kisses him. Once. Twice.  

“I get it, though,” Porthos says. "Some things stick with you more than others. I won’t let you do that again, you know that, right?” 

“I know. You know exactly who I am, you’ve known for years, have watched me at my worst and my best. That’s what changed my mind. Realizing that there was someone who wanted the man I already was.” Porthos cups his face in one big hand and Aramis leans into the touch. "After that I just had to make you love me.”  Aramis grins and catches Porthos’ hand, kissing the big muscle at the base of his thumb.

Porthos squeezes his fingers. “You never had to make me love you. I just had to figure out that I already did."

Aramis grins at him. “Oh, you’re good."

“I’m better than good."

Aramis can feel the future in this moment, playing with each other just like this, all the best parts of the relationship they’ve always had and all the love they have yet to discover.

“Prove it,” he says. 

The wrestling match is quick and victory is decisive. It ends with Aramis facedown on the bed with Porthos sitting on his ass, one of Aramis’ wrists in each of his hands, pressing him into the bed. “Keep ‘em up there,” he says, before sliding backwards and pushing Aramis’ hips apart with his knees. 

Aramis’ erection, having taken a break during the more serious conversation, comes back with a vengeance. He grinds his hips against the bed, letting the sheet drag against him and relishing the friction. He’s sure Porthos is going to fuck him again, going to add some lube to the remnants of his own release and slide that gorgeous cock right into him. He’s sure of it right up until the second he feels Porthos’ mouth suck a kiss into his inner thigh. 

“Are you really going to—“ He breaks off with a gasp at the drag of Porthos’ tongue over his hole. “That is _filthy_ , Porthos.” 

Porthos’ laugh is dirty and low. “Are you gonna pretend you don’t love it?"

“Not for a second.” 

“Good,” Porthos says and those are the last words either of them speak for a long while. The only noises in the room are the obscene slick slide of Porthos’ mouth and tongue over Aramis’ hole, and the guttural sounds of pleasure Aramis makes in response. He can’t help the noises, can’t help the roll of his hips into the bed or the pop of his knuckles as he fists his hands in the sheets.

“Fucking— Porthos!"

Porthos puts a surprisingly tender kiss just above Aramis’ hole and says, “Use your words, Aramis."

After that, Aramis doesn’t know how to stop talking. “Love this, love you, love your fucking mouth. Love when you touch me and— fucking shit is that your thumb?”  Porthos chuckles and licks around where yes, his thumb is sliding into Aramis. “I love your hands, love feeling them on me, love you, love all of it. Please don’t stop."

The ‘I love you’s come out sounding like everything else, come out in the same rush of breath and need, and that’s what makes this so much better for Aramis than any time before. When he doesn’t have to spend any energy watching what comes out of his mouth or worrying about getting in too deep or trying to keep his emotions off his face, he can lose himself in how good everything feels. He can let it roll over him and curl his toes and drive him to tears.

He can feel Porthos’ thumb slip free and a second later that same hand squirms between Aramis’ hips and the bed to circle his cock and squeeze. Porthos’ tongue is dipping in, fucking in where Aramis is loose and tender, but he stops long enough to ask, “Tighter?”  

Aramis can only whimper and nod but Porthos must get the general idea because his grip strengthens around Aramis’ cock, his mouth is back on Aramis’ hole and Aramis is starting to see stars.

Porthos doesn’t move his hand, he just holds it still and lets Aramis fuck into his fist. Aramis has his head in the pillow, grinding his forehead against it as he whines and begs and prays it never ends. He’s got tears in his eyes when he finally jerks in Porthos’ grip and comes with a strangled gasp. 

There’s a moment of recovery while Aramis lays in that same position, blinking as he stares at nothing and waits for his heart to stop racing. When he can speak again, he just says, “I love you.”  Porthos laughs and slaps his ass.

“I bet you do.”  He grips the spot where the handprint is fading and pats it fondly. “Don’t move, be right back."

Aramis has no idea how long Porthos is gone, he dozes off almost as soon as Porthos leaves the bed. It’s at least long enough to brush his teeth and run hot water over a washcloth, because when he comes back, he presses a minty kiss to Aramis’ cheek and wipes him clean with the warm cloth, rolling him out of the wet spot to clean his belly and cock,

He tosses the washcloth into the hamper when he’s done, and crawls into bed next to Aramis. “C’mere,” Porthos says, tugging Aramis into his arms. Aramis can feel Porthos duck his head and kiss Aramis’ shoulder.

“My feet are cold,” Aramis says.

Porthos tucks his feet up under Aramis’ and kisses him behind his ear. “Not for long."

Sleep takes them before Aramis can come up with a suitably sappy response. 

 

By morning they’ve shifted: Porthos is on his back with his right arm flung wide, his left arm is curled around Aramis’ shoulders, and Aramis’ head is resting over Porthos’ heart. Their legs are tangled together, and Aramis’ arm is draped over Porthos’ waist. He has no idea if Porthos is awake, he doesn’t really care, Aramis is content to lay here with the morning sun slanting over them and feeling Porthos’ skin against his own. He strokes his fingers slowly back and forth along Porthos’ ribcage and waist while he watches the sunlight creep across the floor.

When Porthos does wake, the first thing he does is stretch, one long roll of his body to loosen everything up before he wraps both arms around Aramis and holds him tight, dropping a kiss into Aramis’ hair.

“Morning,” he says.

“Morning,” Aramis says and he kisses Porthos’ chest. “I love you."

“I love you too. You snore like a gorilla with a head cold."

Aramis burrows into Porthos’ arms. “Ah, romance."

The café is loud and crowded and Aramis and Porthos are lucky to get two seats side by side at the counter. They order and doctor their coffee, then sit back to watch the world go by until their food arrives. There’s a couple at a table by the door who are feeding each other and nuzzling kisses in between bites.

They’re distracted by the arrival of their breakfasts. Poking at his eggs, Aramis clears his throat. “I just want to clarify—"

“Never,” Porthos says, cutting him off. “I love you, Aramis. I love _you_. The you who still thinks couples like that should get the spray bottle Athos uses on the cat. We’re never going to be the ‘I can’t survive without you’ couple. Because no matter how awful it would be, we _would_ survive.” Porthos picks up half his bacon and moves it over to Aramis’ plate. 

“Are you sure?” Aramis asks. “Because I was going to say that I can’t live without you. You’re the air I breathe, and I wish we never had to be apart.”  

He waits too long to turn around, by the time he’s staring longingly at Porthos, Porthos has fished an ice cube out of his water glass and dropped it down the back of Aramis’ shirt. Aramis yelps and arches his back to get away, which only makes the ice cube slide lower. There’s a decidedly ungraceful dance as Aramis reaches into the back of his jeans and pulls the ice out, dropping it into his napkin and glaring at Porthos. 

“Asshole,” he says.

Porthos grins, cupping the back of Aramis’ neck with his palm and pulling Aramis close. He buries his nose in Aramis’ hair and kisses him once. Twice. Then he just breathes Aramis in and lets out a happy sigh. “Yeah, but I’m _your_ asshole."

Aramis feels warmth spreading through his chest, feels it in his fingers and down his back. He feels safe, known, loved. He turns his head just far enough to kiss the inside of Porthos’ forearm. 

“Yes,” he says. “You are."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> (yes, the stargate reference was on purpose. no, I don't feel even a little bad about it.)


End file.
